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U  N  IVER.5  I T Y 
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L161— 0-1096 


V 


WHEN  A  MAN’S  SINGLE 


A  TALE  OF  LITERARY  LIFE 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 

AUTHOR  OF 

^■JHE  LITTLE  MINISTER,”  K  AULD  LICHT  IDYLLS,”  “  MY  LADY  NICOTINE./ 
“  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS,”  ETC. 


CHICAGO 


DONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY  &  COMPANY 

407,  425  Dearborn  Street. 


A  WHEN  A  MAN’S  SINGLE. 

T*— 


CHAPTER  L 

BOB  ANGUS  IS  NOT  A  FREE  MAN. 


One  still  Saturday  afternoon  some  years  ago  a  child 
...  pulled  herself  through  a  small  window  into  a  kitchen 
in  the  kirk-wynd  of  Thrums.  She  came  from  the  old 
graveyard,  whose  only  outlet,  when  the  parish  church 
gate  is  locked,  is  the  windows  of  the  wynd  houses  that 
hoop  it  round.  Squatting  on  a  three-legged  stool  she 
gazed  wistfully  at  a  letter  on  the  chimney-piece,  and 
then,  tripping  to  the  door,  looked  up  and  down  the 
wynd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  the  bellman,  hobbled  past,  and 
though  Davy  was  only  four  years  old,  she  knew  that 
as  he  had  put  on  his  blue  top-coat  he  expected  the 
evening  to  be  fine.  Tammas  McQuhatty,  the  farmer 
of  T’nowhead,  met  him  at  the  corner,  and  they  came 
<  to  a  standstill  to  say,  “  She’s  hard,  Sneck,”  and  “  She 
is  so,  T’nowhead,”  referring  to  the  weather.  Observ¬ 
ing  that  they  had  stopped  they  moved  on  again. 

^Yomen  and  children  and  a  few  men  squeezed 


6 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


through  their  windows  into  the  kirk-yard,  the  women 
to  knit  stockings  on  fallen  tombstones,  and  the  men  to 
dander  pleasantly  from  grave  to  grave  reading  the 
inscriptions.  All  the  men  were  well  up  in  years,  for 
though,  with  the  Auld  Lichts,  the  Sabbath  began  to 
come  on  at  six  o’clock  on  Saturday  evening,  the  young 
men  were  now  washing  themselves  cautiously  in  tin 
basins  before  going  into  the  square  to  talk  about 
women. 

The  clatter  of  more  than  one  loom  could  still  have 
been  heard  by  Davy  had  not  her  ears  been  too  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  sound  to  notice  it.  In  the  adjoining  house 
Bell  Mealmaker  was  peppering  her  newly-washed 
floor  with  sand,  while  her  lodger,  Hender  Robb,  with 
a  rusty  razor  in  his  hand,  looked  for  his  chin  in  a  tiny 
glass  that  was  peeling  on  the  wall.  Jinny  Tosh  had 
got  her  husband,  Aundra  Lunan,  who  always  spoke 
of  her  as  She,  ready,  so  to  speak,  for  church  eighteen 
hours  too  soon,  and  Aundra  sat  stiffly  at  the  fire, 
putting  his  feet  on  the  ribs  every  minute,  to  draw 
them  back  with  a  scared  look  at  Her  as  he  remem¬ 
bered  that  he  had  on  his  blacks.  In  a  bandbox  be¬ 
neath  the  bed  was  his  silk  hat,  which  had  been 
knocked  down  to  him  at  Jamie  Ramsay’s  roup,  and 
Jinny  had  already  put  his  red  handkerchief,  which 
was  also  a  pictorial  history  of  Scotland,  into  a  pocket 
of  his  coat-tails,  with  a  corner  hanging  gracefully 
out.  Iler  puckered  lips  signified  that,  however 
much  her  man  might  desire  to  do  so,  he  was  not  to 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


7 


carry  liis  handkerchief  to  church  in  his  hat,  where  no 
one  could  see  it.  On  working-days  Aundra  held  his 
own,  but  at  six  o’clock  on  Saturday  nights  he  passed 
into  Her  hands. 

Across  the  wynd,  in  which  a  few  hens  wandered, 
Pete  Todd  was  supping  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  His 
blacks  lay  ready  for  him  in  the  coffin-bed,  and  Pete, 
glancing  at  them  at  intervals,  supped  as  slowly  as  he 
could.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  saucer,  and  in  the  other 
a  chunk  of  bread,  and  they  were  as  far  apart  as  Pete’s 
outstretched  arms  could  put  them.  His  chair  was  a 
yard  from  the  table,  on  which,  by  careful  balancing, 
he  rested  a  shoeless  foot,  and  his  face  was  twisted 
to  the  side.  Every  time  Easie  Whamond,  his  wife, 
passed  him  she  took  the  saucer  from  his  hand,  remark¬ 
ing  that  when  a  genteel  man  sat  down  to  tea  he  did 
not  turn  his  back  on  the  table.  Pete  took  this  stolidly, 
like  one  who  had  long  given  up  trying  to  understand 
the  tantrums  of  women,  and  who  felt  that,  as  a  lord 
of  creation,  he  could  afford  to  let  it  pass. 

Davy  sat  on  her  three-legged  stool  keeping  guard 
over  her  Uncle  Rob  the  saw-miller’s  letter,  and  long¬ 
ing  for  him  to  come.  She  screwed  up  her  eyebrows 
as  she  had  seen  him  do  when  he  read  a  letter,  and  she 
felt  that  it  would  be  nice  if  every  one  would  come  and 
look  at  her  taking  care  of  it.  After  a  time  she  climbed 
up  on  her  stool  and  stretched  her  dimpled  arms  toward 
the  mantelpiece.  From  a  string  suspended  across 
this,  socks  and  stockings  hung  drying  at  the  fire,  and 


8 


WHEN  A  MAN1  S  SINGLE. 


« 

clutching  one  of  them  Davy  drew  herself  nearer.  With 
a  chuckle,  quickly  suppressed,  lest  it  should  bring 
in  Kitty  Wilkie,  who  ought  to  have  been  watching 
her  instead  of  wandering  down  the  wynd  to  see  who 
was  to  have  salt  fish  for  supper,  the  child  clutched 
the  letter  triumphantly,  and,  toddling  to  the  door, 
slipped  out  of  the  house. 

For  a  moment  Davy  faltered  at  the  mouth  of  the 
wynd.  There  was  no  one  there  to  whom  she  could 
show  the  letter.  A  bright  thought  entered  her  head, 
and  immediately  a  dimple  opened  on  her  face  and 
swallowed  all  the  puckers.  Rob  had  gone  to  the 
Whunny  muir  for  wood,  and  she  would  take  the  letter 
to  him.  Then  when  Rob  saw  her  he  would  look  all 
around  him,  and  if  there  was  no  one  there  to  take 
note  he  would  lift  her  to  his  shoulder,  when  they 
could  read  the  letter  together. 

Davy  ran  out  of  the  wynd  into  the  square,  thinking 
she  heard  Kitty’s  Sabbath  voice,  which  reminded  the 
child  of  the  little  squeaking  saw  that  Rob  used  for 
soft  wood.  On  week-days  Kitty’s  voice  was  the  big 
saw  that  pulled  and  rasped,  and  Mag  Wilkie  shivered 
at  it.  Except  to  her  husband  Mag  spoke  with  her 
teeth  closed,  so  politely  that  no  one  knew  what  she 
said. 

Davy  stumbled  up  the  steep  brae  down  which  men 
are  blown  in  winter  to  their  work,  until  she  reached 
the  rim  of  the  hollow  in  which  Thrums  lies.  Here 
the  road  stops  short,  as  if  frightened  to  cross  the  com- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


9 


mon  of  whin  that  bars  the  way  to  the  north.  On  this 
common  there  are  many  cart-tracks  over  bumpy 
sward  and  slippery  roots,  that  might  be  the  ribs  of 
the  earth  showing,  and  Davy,  with  a  dazed  look,  in 
her  eyes,  ran  down  one  of  them,  the  whins  catching 
her  frock  to  stop  her,  and  then  letting  go,  as  if,  after 
all,  one  child  more  or  less  in  the  world  was  nothing  to 
them. 

By  and  by  she  found  herself  on  another  road,  along 
which  Rob  had  trudged  earlier  in  the  day  with  a  saw 
on  his  shoulder,  but  he  had  gone  east,  and  the  child’s 
face  was  turned  westward.  It  is  a  muddy  road  even 
in  summer,  and  those  who  use  it  frequently  get  into 
the  habit  of  lifting  their  legs  high  as  they  walk,  like 
men  picking  their  way  through  beds  of  rotting  leaves. 
The  light  had  faded  from  her  baby  face  now,  but  her 
mouth  was  firm-set,  and  her  bewildered  eyes  were  fixed 
straight  ahead. 

The  last  person  to  see  Davy  was  Tammas  Haggart, 
who,  with  his  waistcoat  buttoned  over  his  jacket,  and 
garters  of  yarn  round  his  trousers,  was  slowly  break¬ 
ing  stones,  though  the  road  swallowed  them  quicker 
than  he  could  feed  it.  Tammas  heard  the  child 
approaching,  for  his  hearing  had  become  very  acute, 
owing  to  his  practice  when  at  home  of  listening  through 
the  floor  to  what  the  folks  below  were  saying,  and  of 
sometimes  joining  in.  He  leaned  on  his  hammer  and 
watched  her  trot  past. 

The  strength  went  gradually  from  Tammas’  old  arms, 


10 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


and  again  resting  on  liis  hammer  he  removed  his  spec¬ 
tacles  and  wiped  them  on  his  waistcoat.  He  took  a 
comprehensive  glance  around  the  fields,  as  if  he  now 
had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them  for  the  first  time 
during  his  sixty  years’  pilgrimage  in- these  parts,  and 
his  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  from  the  somber  firs  and 
laughing  beeches  to  the  white  farms  that  dot  the  strath. 
In  the  foreground  two  lazy  colts  surveyed  him  criti¬ 
cally  across  a  dyke.  To  the  north  the  frowning 
Whunny  hill  had  a  white  scarf  round  its  neck. 

Something  troubled  Tammas.  It  was  the  vision  of 
a  child  in  a  draggled  pinafore,  and  stepping  into  the 
middle  of  the  road  he  looked  down  it  in  the  direction 
in  which  Davy  has  passed. 

“  Chirsty  Angus’  lassieky,”  he  murmured. 

Tammas  sat  down  cautiously  on  the  dyke  and  untied 
the  red  handkerchief  that  contained  the  remnants  of 
his  dinner.  When  he  had  smacked  his  lips  over  his 
flagon  of  cold  kail,  and  seen  the  last  of  his  crumbling 
oatmeal  and  cheese,  his  uneasiness  returned,  and  he 
again  looked  down  the  road. 

“  I  maun  turn  the  bairn,”  was  his  reflection. 

It  was  now,  however,  half  an  hour  since  Davy  had 
passed  Tammas  Ilaggart’s  cairn. 

To  Haggart,  pondering  between  the  strokes  of  his 
hammer,  came  a  mole- catcher,  who  climbed  the  dyke 
and  sat  down  beside  him. 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  the  new-comer ;  to  which  Tammas 
replied  abstractedly  * 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


11 


“  Jamie.” 

“Hae  ye  seen  Davy  Dundas?”  the  stone-breaker 
asked,  after  the  pause  that  followed  this  conversation. 

The  mole-catcher  stared  heavily  at  his  corduroys. 

“  I  dinna  ken  him,”  he  said,  at  last,  “  but  I  hae  seen 
naebody  this  twa  ’oors.” 

“  It’s  no  a  him,  it’s  a  her.  Ye  canna  hae  been  a 
winter  here  withoot  kennin’  Rob  Angus.” 

“  Ay,  the  saw- miller.  He  was  i  ’  the  wud  the  day. 
I  saw  his  cart  gae  hame.  Ou,  in  coorse  I  ken  Rob. 
He’s  an  amazin’  crittur.” 

Tammas  broke  another  stone  as  carefully  as  if  it 
were  a  nut. 

“I  dinna  deny,”  he  said,  “but  what  Rob’s  a  curi¬ 
osity.  So  was  his  faither  afore  ’im.” 

“I’ve  heard  auld  Rob  was  a  queer  body,”  said  Jamie, 
adding  incredulously,  “they  say  he  shaved  twice  i’ 
the  week  an’  wore  a  clean  dicky  ilka  day.” 

“No  what  ye  wad  say  ilka  day,  but  oftener  than 
was  called  for.  Rob  wasna  naturally  ostentatious; 
na,  it  was  the  wife  ’at  insistit  on’t.  Nanny  was  a 
terrible  tid  for  cleanness.  Ay,  an’  it’s  a  guid  thing  in 
moderation,  but  she  juist  overdid  it ;  yes,  she  overdid 
it.  Man,  it  had  sic  a  haud  on  her  ’at  even  on  her 
death-bed  they  had  to  bring  a  basin  to  her  to  w^ash  her 
hands  in.” 

“  Ay,  ay  ?  When  there  was  sic  a  pride  in  her  I 
wonder  she  didna  lat  young  Rob  to  the  college,  an’ 
him  sae  keen  on’t.” 


12 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Ou,  he  was  gaen,  but  ye  see  auld  Rob  got  gey 
dottle  after  Nanny’s  death,  an’  so  young  Rob  stuck  to 
the  saw-mill.  It’s  curious  lioo  a  body  misses  his  wife 
when  she’s  gone.  Ay,  it’s  like  the  clock  stoppin’.” 

“Weel,  Rob’s  no  gettin’  to  the  college  hasna  made 
’im  humble.” 

“  Ye  dinna  like  Rob?  ” 

“IIoo  did  ye  find  that  oot?”  asked  Jamie,  a  little 
taken  aback.  “Man,  Tammas,”  he  added,  admiringly, 
“  ye’re  michty  quick  i’  the  uptak.” 

Tammas  handed  his  snuff-mull  to  the  mole-catcher, 
and  then  helped  himself. 

“  I  daursay,  I  daursay,”  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

“I’ve  naething  to  say  agin  the  saw-miller,”  con¬ 
tinued  Jamie,  after  thinking  it  out,  “  but  there’s  some¬ 
thing  in’s  face  ’at’s  no  sociable.  lie  looks'  as  if  he  was 
takkin’  ye  aff  in’s  inside.” 

“Ay,  auld  Rob  was  a  sarcestic  stock  too.  It  rins 
i’  the  blood.” 

“  I  prefer  a  mair  common  kind  o’  man,  bein’  o’  the 
common  kind  mysel’.” 

“  Ay,  there’s  naething  sarcestic  about  you,  Jamie,” 
admitted  the  stone-breaker. 

“  I’m  an  ord’nar  man,  Tammas.” 

“Ye  are,  Jamie,  ye  are.” 

“  Maybe  no  sae  oncommon  ord’nar  either.” 

“  Middlin’  ord’nar,  middlin’  ord’nar.” 

“  I’m  thinkin’  ye’re  braw  an’  sarcestic  yersel’, 
Tammas  ?  ” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


13 


“  I’d  aye  that  repootation,  Jeames.  Am  no  an  every¬ 
day  sarcesticist,  but  juist  noos  an’  nans.  There  was 
ae  time  I  was  speakin’  tae  Easie  Webster,  an’  I  said 
a  terrible  sarcestic  thing.  Ay,  I  dinna  mind  what  it 
was,  but  it  was  miclity  sarcestic.” 

“  It’s  a  gift,”  said  the  mole-catcher. 

“  A  gift  it  is,”  said  T-ammas. 

The  stone-breaker  took  his  flagon  to  a  spring  near 
at  hand,  and  rinsed  it  out.  Several  times  while  pull¬ 
ing  it  up  and  down  the  little  pool  an  uneasy  expres¬ 
sion  crossed  his  face  as  he  remembered  something 
about  a  child,  but  in  washing  his  hands,  using  sand 
for  soap,  Davy  slipped  his  memory,  and  he  returned 
cheerfully  to  the  cairn.  Here  Jamie  was  wagging  his 
head  from  side  to-  side  like  a  man  who  had  caught 
himself  thinking. 

“  I’ll  warrant,  Tammas,”  he  said,  “  ye  cudna  tell’s 
what  set’s  on  to  speak  aboot  Rob  Angus  ?  ” 

“  Na,  it’s  a  thing  as  has  often  puzzled  me  hoo  we 
select  wan  topic  mair  than  anither.  I  suppose  it’s 
like  sliootin’ ;  ye  juist  blaze  awa’  at  the  first  bird  ’at 
rises.” 

“  Ye  was  sayin’,  had  I  seen  a  lass  wi’  a  lad’s  name. 
That  began  it,  I’m  thinkin’.” 

“  A  lass  wi’  a  lad’s  name  ?  Ay,  noo,  that’s  oncom- 
mon.  But  mebbe  ye  mean  Davy  Dundas  ?  ” 

“  That’s  the  name.” 

Tammas  paused  in  the  act  of  buttoning  his  trouser 
pocket. 


14 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Did  ye  say  ye’d  seen  Davy  ?  ”  lie  asked. 

“  Na,  it  was  you  as  said  ’at  ye  had  seen  her.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  Jamie,  ye’re  richt.  Man,  I  fully  meant  to 
turn  the  bairn,  but  she  ran  by  at  sic  a  steek  ’at  there 
was  nae  stoppin’  her.  Rob’ll  make  an  awfu’  ring-ding 
if  ony thing  comes  ower  Davy.” 

“  Is’t  the  litlin  ’at’s  aye  wi’  Rob  ?  ” 

“  Ay,  it’s  Cliirsty  Angus’  bairn,  her  ’at  was  Rob’s 
sister.  A’  her  fowk’s  deid  but  Rob.” 

“  I’ve  seen  them  i’  the  saw-mill  thegither.  It 
didna  strick  me  ’at  Rob  cared  muckle  for  the  crit- 
tury.” 

“  Ou,  Rob’s  a  reserved  stock,  but  he’s  michty  fond 
o’  her  when  naebody’s  lookin’.  It  doesna  do,  ye 
ken,  to  lat  on  afore  company  at  ye’ve  a  kind  o’  re- 
gaird  for  yere  ain  fowk.  Na,  it’s  lowerin’.  But  if 
it  wasna  afore  your  time,  ye’d  seen  the  cradle  i’  the 
saw-mill.” 

“  I  never  saw  ony  cradle,  Tammas.” 

“  Weel,  it  was  unco’  ingenious  o’  Rob.  The  bairn’s 
father  an’  mither  was  baith  gone  when  Davy  was  nae 
age,  an’  auld  Rob  passed  awa’  sune  efter.  Rob  had 
it  all  arranged  to  ging  to  the  college — ay,  he’d  been 
workin’  far  on  into  the  nicht  the  hale  year  to  save 
up  siller  to  keep  ’imsel’  at  Edinbory,  but  ye  see  he 
promised  Cliirsty  to  look  after  Davy  an’  no’  send  her 
to  the  parish.  He  took  her  to  the  saw-mill  an’  broclit 
her  up  ’imsel’.  It  was  a  terrible  disappointment  to 
Rob,  his  mind  bein’  bent  on  becomin’  a  great  leeter- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


15 


ary  genius,  but  he’s  been  michty  guid  to  the  bairn. 
Ay,  she’s  an  extror’nar  takkin’  dawty,  Davy,  an’ 
though  I  wudna  like  it  kent,  I’ve  a  fell  notion  o’  her 
mysel’.  I  mind  ance  gaen  in  to  Rob’s,  an’,  wud  ye 
believe,  there  was  the  bit  lassieky  sittin’  in  the  airm- 
chair  wi’  ane  o’  Rob’s  books  open  on  her  knees,  an’ 
her  pertendin’  to  be  readin’  oot  in’t  to  Rob.  The 
tiddy  had  watched  him  readin’  ye  unerstan’,  an’, 
man,  she  was  mimickin’  ’im  to  the  life.  There’s 
nae  accountin’  for  thae  things,  but  ondootedly  it  was 
attractive.” 

u  But  what  aboot  a  cradle  ?  ” 

“Ou,  as  I  was  sayin’,  Rob  didna  like  to  lat  the 
bairn  oot  o’  his  sicht,  so  he  made  a  queer  cradle  ’i ni¬ 
sei’,  an’  put  it  ower  the  burn.  Ye’ll  mind  the  burn 
rins  through  the  saw-mill  ?  Ay,  weel,  Davy’s  cradle 
was  put  across’ t  wi’  the  paddles  sae  arranged  ’at  the 
watter  rocked  the  cradle.  Man,  the  burn  was  juist 
like  a  mither  to  Davy,  for  no’  only  did  it  rock  her  to 
sleep,  but  it  sang  to  the  bairn  the  hale  time.” 

“  That  was  an  ingenious  contrivance,  Tamm  as ; 
but  it  was  juist  like  Rob  Angus’  ind’pendence.  The 
crittur  aye  perseests  in  doin’  a’thing  for  ’imsel’.  I 
mind  ae  day  seein’  Cree  Deuchars  puttin’  in  a  win¬ 
dow  into  the  saw-mill  hoose,  an’  Rob’s  fingers  was 
fair  itchin’  to  do’t  quick  ’imsel’;  ye  ken  Cree’s  fell 
slow?  ‘See  haud  o’  the  potty,’  cries  Rob,  an’  losh, 
he  had  the  window  in  afore  Cree  cud  hae  cut  the 


16 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


glass.  Ay,  ye  canna  deny  but  what  Rob’s  fearfu’ 
independent.” 

44  So  was  his  faither.  I  call  to  mind  auld  Rob  an’ 
the  minister  haen  a  termendous  debate  aboot  justifi¬ 
cation  by  faith,  an’  says  Rob  i’  the  tail  o’  the  day, 
gettin’  passionate-like,  4 1  tell  ye  flat,  Mester  Byars,’ 
he  says,  4  if  I  dinna  ging  to  heaven  in  my  ain  wy,  I 
dinna  ging  ava !  ’  ” 

44  Losh,  losh !  he  wudna  hae  said  that,  though,  to 
oor  minister ;  na,  he  wudna  hae  daured.” 

44Ye’re  a  U.  P. ,  Jamie?”  asked  the  stone- 
breaker. 

44 1  was  born  U.  P. ,”  replied  the  mole-eatcher,  firmly, 
44  an’  U.  P. ,  I’ll  die.” 

44 1  say  nae thing  agin  yer  releegion,”  replied  Tarn- 
mas,  a  little  contemptuously,  44  but  to  compare  yer 
minister  to  oors  is  a  haver.  Man,  when  Mester  Byars 
was  oor  minister,  Sanders  Dobie,  the  wricht,  had  a 
standin’  engagement  to  mend  the  poopit  ilka  month.” 

44  We’ll  no’  speak  o’  releegion,  Tammas,  or  we’ll  be 
quarrelin’.  Ye  micht  tell’s,  though,  lioo  they  cam  to 
gie  a  lassieky  sic  a  man’s  name  as  Davy.” 

44  It  was  an  accident  at  the  christenin’.  Ye  see, 
Hendry  Dundas  an’  Chirsty  was  both  vary  young, 
an’  when  the  bairn  was  born  they  were  shy-like  aboot 
makkin’  the  affair  public  ;  ay,  Hendry  cud  hardly 
tak  courage  to  tell  the  minister.  When  he  was  had- 
dhT  up  the  bit  tid  in  the  kirk  to  be  baptized  he  was 
remarkable  egitated,  Weel,  the  minister — it  was 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  17 

Mester  Dishart — somehoo  had  a  notion  ’at  the  litlin 
was  a  laddie,  an’  when  he  reads  the  name  on  the 
paper,  ‘Margaret  Dundas,’  he  looks  at  Hendry  wi’ 
the  bairny  in’s  airms,  an’  says  he,  stern-like,  ‘The 
child’s  a  hoy,  is  he  not  ?  ’  ” 

“  Sal,  that  was  a  predeecament  for  Hendry.” 

“Ay,  an’  Hendry  was  confused,  as  a  man  often  is 
wi’  his  first;  so  says  he,  all  trem’lin’,  ‘Yes,  Mr.  Dis¬ 
hart.’  ‘Then,’  says  the  minister,  ‘I  cannot  christen 
him  Margaret,  so  I  will  call  him  David.’  An’  Davit 
the  litlin  was  baptized,  sure  eneuch.” 

“  The  mither  wud  be  in  a  michty  wy  at  that  ?  ” 

“  She  was  so,  hut  as  Hendry  said,  when  she  chal¬ 
lenged  him  on  the  subject,  says  Hendry,  ‘I  dauredna 
conterdick  the  minister.’  ” 

Haggart’s  work  being  now  over  for  the  day,  he  sat 
down  beside  Jamie  to  await  some  other  stone-breakers 
who  generally  caught  him  up  on  their  way  home. 
Strange  figures  began  to  emerge  from  the  woods,  a 
dumb  man  with  a  barrowful  of  roots  for  firewood, 
several  women  in  men’s  coats,  one  smoking  a  cutty- 
pipe.  A  farm-laborer  pulled  his  heavy  legs  in  their 
rustling  corduroys  alongside  a  field  of  swedes,  a  ragged 
potato  bogle  brandished  its  arms  in  a  sudden  puff 
of  wind.  Several  men  and  women  reached  Haggart’s 
cairn  about  the  same  time,  and  said,  “It  is  so,”  or 
“  ay,  ay,”  to  him,  according  as  they  were  loquacious 
or  merely  polite. 

was  speakin’  about  matermony,”  the  mole- 

.  9 


18 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


catcher  remarked,  as  the  back-bent  little  party  strag¬ 
gled  towards  Thrums. 

“It’s  a  caution,”  murmured  the  farm-laborer,  who 
had  heard  the  observation  from  the  other  side  of  the 
dyke.  “  Ay,  ye  may  say  so,”  he  added,  thoughtfully, 
addressing  himself. 

With  the  mole-catcher’s  companions,  however,  the 
talk  passed  into  another  rut.  Nevertheless  Haggart 
was  thinking  matrimony  over,  and  by  and  by  he  saw 
his  way  to  a  joke,  for  one  of  the  other  stone-breakers 
had  recently  married  a  very  small  woman,  and  in 
Thrums,  where  women  have  to  work,  the  far-seeing 
men  prefer  their  wives  big. 

“Ye  drew  a  sma’  prize  yersel’,  Sam’l,”  said  Tarn- 
mas,  with  the  gleam  in  his  eye  which  showed  that  he 
was  now  in  sarcastic  fettle. 

“  Ay,”  said  the  mole-catcher,  “  Sam’l’s  Kitty  is 
sma’.  I  suppose  Sam’l  thocht  it  wud  be  prudent-like 
to  begin  in  a  modest  way.” 

“  If  Kitty  hadna  haen  sae  sma’  hands,  ”  said  an¬ 
other  stone-breaker,  “  I  wud  hae  haen  a  bid  for  her 
mysel’.” 

The  women  smiled ;  they  had  very  large  hands. 

“They  say,”  said  the  youngest  of  them,  who  had 
a  load  of  firewood  on  her  back,  “  ’at  there’s  places 
whaur  little  hands  is  thocht  muckle  o’.” 

There  was  an  incredulous  laugh  at  this. 

“  I  wudna  wonder,  though,”  said  the  mole-catcher, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  19 

who  had  traveled ;  “  there’s  some  michty  queer  ideas 
i’  the  big  toons.” 

“  Ye’d  better  ging  to  the  big  toons,  then,  Sam’l,” 
suggested  the  merciless  Tammas. 

Sam’l  woke  up. 

“  Kitty’s  sma’,  ”  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  “  but  she’s 
an  auld  tid.” 

“  What  made  ye  think  o’  speirin’  her,  Sam’l  ?  ” 

“I  cudna  say  for  sartin,”  answered  Sam’l,  reflect¬ 
ively.  “  I  had  nae  intention  o’t  till  I  saw  Pete  Proc¬ 
tor  after  her,  an’  syne,  thinks  I,  I’ll  hae  her.  Ay, 
ye  mieht  say  as  Pete  was  the  instrument  o’  Provi¬ 
dence  in  that  case.” 

“  Man,  man,”  murmured  Jamie,  who  knew  Pete, 
“Providence  sometimes  maks  use  o’  strange  instru¬ 
ments.” 

“Ye  was  lang  in  gettin’  a  man  yersel’,  Jinny,”  said 
Tammas  to  an  elderly  woman. 

“  Fower-an’-forty  year,”  replied  Jinny.  “  It  was 
like  a  stockin’,  lang  i’  the  futin’,  but  turned  at  last.” 

“Lassies  nooadays,”  said  the  old  woman  who 
smoked,  “is  partikler  by  what  they  used  to  be.  I 
mind  when  Jeames  Gowrie  speired  me:  ‘Ye  wud 
raither  hae  Davit  Curly,  I  ken,’  he  says.  ‘  I  dinna 
deny’t,’  I  says,  for  the  thing  was  well  kent,  ‘  but 
ye’ll  do  vara  weel,  Jeames,’  says  I,  an’  mairy  him  I 
did.” 

“He  was  a  harmless  crittur,  Jeames,”  said  Hag- 
gart,  “  but  queer.  Ay,  he  was  full  o’  maggots.” 


20 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Ay,”  said  Jeames’  widow,  “but  though  it’s  no’ 
for  me  to  say’t,  he  deid  a  deacon.” 

“  There’s  some  rale  queer  wys  o’  speirin’  a  wuman,” 
began  the  mole-catcher. 

“Vary  true,  Jamie,”  said  a  stone-breaker.  “I 
mind  hoo - ” 

“  There  was  a  chappy  ower  by  Blair,”  continued 
Jamie,  raising  his  voice,  “  ’at  micht  hae  been  a 
single  man  to  this  day  if  it  hadna  been  for  the  tooth¬ 
ache.” 

“  Ay,  man  ?  ” 

“Joey  Fargus  was  the  stock’s  name.  He  was  on- 
common  troubled  wi’  the  toothache  till  he  found  a 
cure.” 

“  I  didna  ken  o’  ony  cure  for  sair  teeth  ?  ” 

“  Joey’s  cure  was  to  pour  cauld  watter  stretcht  on 
into  his  moOth  for  the  maitter  o’  twa  ’oors,  an’  ane 
day  he  cam  into  Blair  an’  found  Jess  McTaggart  (a 
speerity  bit  thingy  she  was — ou,  she  was  so)  fair 
greetin’  wi’  sair  teeth.  Joey  advised  the  crittur  to 
try  his  cure,  an’  when  he  left  she  was  pourin’  the 
watter  into  her  mooth  ower  the  sink.  Weel,  it  soo 
happened  ’at  Joey  was  in  Blair  again  aboot  twa 
month  after,  an’  he  gies  a  cry  in  at  Willie’s — that’s 
Jess’  father’s,  as  ye’ll  un’erstan’.  Ay,  then  Jess 
had  haen  anither  fit  o’  the  toothache,  an’  she  was 
hingin’  ower  the  sink  wi’  a  tanker  o’  watter  in  her 
han’,  juist  as  she’d  been  when  he  saw  her  last. 
‘What!’  says  Joey,  wi’  rale  consairn,  ‘  nae  better 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  *21 

yet  ?  ’  The  stock  thocht  she  had  been  haddin’  gaen 
at  the  watter  a’  thae  twa  month.” 

“  I  call  to  mind,”  the  stone-breaker  broke  in  again, 
“  hoo  a  body - ” 

“  So,”  continued  Jamie,  “Joey^cudna  help  but  ad¬ 
mire  the  patience  o’  the  lassie,  an’  says  he,  ‘  Jess,’  he 
says,  ‘  come  oot  by  to  Mortar  Pits,  an’  try  oor  well.’ 
That’s  hoo  Joey  Fargus  speired’s  wife,  an’  if  ye 
dinna  believe’s,  ye’ve  nae  mair  to  do  but  ging  t<r 
Mortar  Pits  an’  see  the  well  yersels.” 

“I  recall,”  said  the  stone-breaker,  “a  vary  neat 
case  o’  speirin’.  It  was  Jocky  Wilkie,  him  ’at’s 
brither  was  grieve  to  Broken  Busses,  an’  the  lass 
was  Leeby  Lunan.  She  was  aye  puttin’  Jocky  afif 
when  he  was  on  the  point  o’  speirin’  her,  keepin’  ’im 
hingin’  on  the  hook  like  a  trout,  as  ye  may  say,  an’ 
takkin’  her  fling  wi’  ither  lads  at  the  same  time.” 

“Ay,  I’ve  kent  them  do  that.” 

“Weel,  it  fair  maddened  Jocky,  so  ane  nicht  he 
gings  to  her  father’s  hoose  wi’  a  present  o’  a  grand 
thimble  to  her  in  his  pooch,  an’  afore  the  hale  hoose- 
hold  he  perdooces’t  an’  flings’t  wi’  a  bang  on  the 
dresser :  c  Tak  it,’  he  says  to  Leeby,  ‘  or  leave’t.’  In 
coorse  the  thing’s  bein’  done  sae  public-like,  Leeby 
kent  she  had  to  mak’  up  her  mind  there  an’  then. 
Ay,  she  took  it.” 

“But  hoo  did  ye  speir  Chirsty  yersel’,  Dan’l?” 
asked  Jinny  of  the  speaker. 


22 


WHEN  A  HAN'S  SINGLE. 


There  was  ■  a  laugh  at  this,  for,  as  was  well  known, 
Dan’l  had  jilted  Chirsty. 

“I  never  kent  Iliad  speired,”  replied  the  stone* 
breaker,  “  till  Chirsty  told  me.” 

“  Ye’ll  no’  say  ye  wasna  fond  o’  her?” 

“  Sometimes  I  was,  an’  syne  at  other  times  I  was 
indifferent-like.  The  mair  I  thocht  o’t  the  mair 
risky  I  saw  it  was,  so  i’  the  tail  o’  the  day  I  says  to 
Chirsty,  says  I,  4  Na,  na,  Chirsty,  lat’s  he  as  I  am.’  ” 

“  They  say  she  took  on  terrible,  Dan’l.” 

“  Ay,  nae  doot,  but  a  man  has  ’imsel’  to  conseeder.” 

By  this  time  they  had  crossed  the  moor  of  whins. 
It  was  a  cold,  still  evening,  and  as  they  paused  be¬ 
fore  climbing  down  into  the  town  they  heard  the 
tinkle  of  a  bell. 

“  That’s  Snecky’s  bell,”  said  the  mole-catcher. 
“  What  can  he  be  cryin’  at  this  time  o’  niclrt  ?  ” 

“  There’s  something  far  wrang,”  said  one  of  the 
women.  “Look,  a’ body’s  rinnin’  to  the  square.” 

The  troubled  look  returned  to  Tammas  Haggart’s 
face,  and  he  stopped  to  look  back  across  the  fast- 
darkening  moor. 

“Did  ony  o’  ye  see  little  Davy  Dundas,  the  saw- 
miller’s  bairny?”  he  began. 

At  that  moment  a  young  man  swept  by.  His 
teeth  were  clinched,  his  eyes  glaring. 

“  Speak  o’  the  deil,”  said  the  mole-catcher :  that 
was  Rob  Angus.” 


CHAPTER  II. 


ROB  BECOMES  FREE. 

# 

A61  Haggart  hobbled  down  into  the  square,  in  the 
mole-catcher’s  rear,  Hobart’s  cracked  hell  tinkled  up 
the  back-wynd,  and  immediately  afterward  the  bell¬ 
man  took  his  stand  by  the  side  of  Tam  Peter’s  fish- 
cart.  Snecky  gave  his  audience  time  to  gather,  for 
not  every  day  was  it  given  him  to  cry  a  lost  bairn. 
The  words  fell  slowly  from  his  reluctant  lips.  Be¬ 
fore  he  flung  hack  his  head  and  ejected  his  proclama¬ 
tion  in  a  series  of  puffs  he  was  the  possessor  of  exclu¬ 
sive  news,  hut  his  tongue  had  hardly  ceased  to  roll 
round  the  concluding  sentence  when  the  crowd  took 
up  the  cry  themselves.  Wives  flinging  open  their 
windows  shouted  their  fears  across  the  wynds. 
Davy  Dundas  had  wandered  from  the  kirkyard, 
where  Roh  had  left  her  in  Kitty  Wilkie’s  charge  till 
he  returned  from  the  woods.  What  had  Kitty  been 
about  ?  It  wTas  believed  that  the  litlin  had  taken 
with  her  a  letter  that  had  come  for  Rob.  Was  Rob 
back  from  the  woods  yet?  Ay,  he  had  scoured  the 
whole  countryside  already  for  her. 


24 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Men  gathered  on  the  saw-mill  brig,  looking  per¬ 
plexedly  at  the  burn  that  swivelled  at  this  point,  a 
sawdust  color,  between  wooden  hoards ;  but  the  women 
pressed  their  bairns  closely  to  their  wrappers  and 
gazed  in  each  other’s  faces. 

A  log  of  wood,  with  which  some  one  had  sought  to 
improvise  a  fire  between  the  bricks  that  narrowed 
Rob  Angus’  grate,  turned  peevishly  to  charcoal  with¬ 
out  casting  much  light  on  the  men  and  women  in  the 
saw-mill  kitchen.  Already  the  burn  had  been  searched 
near  the  mill,  with  Rob’s  white  face  staring  at  the 
searchers  from  his  door. 

The  room  was  small  and  close.  A  closet-bed  with 
the  door  off  afforded  seats  for  several  persons ;  and 
David  Lunan,  the  tinsmith,  who  could  read  Homer 
with  Rob  in  the  original,  sat  clumsily  on  the  dresser. 
The  pendulum  of  a  wag-at-the-wa’  clock  swung  si¬ 
lently  against  the  wall,  casting  a  mouse-like  shadow 
on  the  hearth.  Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  sampler 
in  many  colors,  the  work  of  Rob’s  mother  when  she 
was  still  a  maid.  The  hook-case,  fitted  into  a  recess 
that  had  once  held  a  press,  was  Rob’s  own  handiwork, 
and  contained  more  books  than  any  other  house  in 
Thrums.  Overhead  the  thick  wooden  rafters  were 
crossed  with  saws  and  staves. 

There  was  a  painful  silence  in  the  gloomy  room. 
Snecky  Hobart  tried  to  break  the  log  in  the  fire-place, 
using  his  leg  as  a  poker,  but  desisted  when  he  saw 
every  eye  turned  on  him.  A  glitter  of  sparks  shot 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


25 


up  the  chimney,  and  the  starling  in  the  window  be¬ 
gan  to  whistle.  Pete  Todd  looked  undecidedly  at  the 
minister,  and,  lifting  a  sack,  flung  it  over  the  bird’s 
cage,  as  if  anticipating  the  worst.  In  Thrums  they 
veil  their  cages  if  there  is  a  death  in  the  house. 

“  What  do  ye  mean,  Pete  Todd  ?  ”  cried  Rob  Angus, 
fiercely. 

His  voice  broke,  but  he  seized  the  sack  and  cast  it 
on  the  floor.  The  starling,  however,  whistled  no  more. 

Looking  as  if  he  could  strike  Pete  Todd,  Rob  stood 
in  the  center  of  his  kitchen,  a  saw-miller  for  the  last 
time.  Though  they  did  not  know  it,  his  neighbors 
there  were  photographing  him  in  their  minds,  and 
their  children  were  destined  to  gape  in  the  days  to 
come  over  descriptions  of  Rob  Angus  in  corduroys. 

These  pictures  showed  a  broad-shouldered  man  of 
twenty-six,  whose  face  was  already  rugged.  A  short 
brown  beard  hid  the  heavy  chin,  and  the  lips  were 
locked  as  if  Rob  feared  to  show  that  he  was  anxious 
about  the  child.  His  clear  gray  eyes  were  younger- 
looking  than  his  forehead,  and  the  swollen  balls  be¬ 
neath  them  suggested  a  student  rather  than  a  working¬ 
man.  His  hands  were  too  tanned  and  hard  ever  to 
be  white,  and  he  delved  a  little  in  his  walk,  as  if  he 
felt  uncomfortable  without  a  weight  on  his  back.  He 
was  the  best  saw-miller  in  his  county,  but  his  ambi¬ 
tion  would  have  scared  his  customers  had  he  not  kept 
it  to  himself.  Many  a  time  strangers  had  stared  at 
him  as  he  strode  along  the  Whunny  road,  and  won- 


26  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

% 

dered  what  made  this  stalwart  man  whirl  the  axe  that 
he  had  been  using  as  a  staff.  Then  Rob  was  thinking 
of  the  man  he  was  going  to  be  when  he  could  safely 
leave  little  Davy  behind  him,  and  it  was  not  the  firs 
of  the  Whunny  wood-that  were  in  his  eye,  but  a  roar¬ 
ing  city  and  a  saw-miller  taking  it  by  the  throat. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  bore  no  love  for  the 
bairn  who  came  between  him  and  his  career. 

Rob  was  so  tall  that  he  could  stand  erect  in  but  few 
rooms  in  Thrums,  and  long  afterward,  when  very  dif¬ 
ferent  doors  opened  to  him,  he  still  involuntarily 
ducked,  as  he  crossed  a  threshold,  to  save  his  head. 
Up  to  the  day  on  which  Davy  wandered  from  home 
he  had  never  lifted  his  hat  to  a  lady  ;  when  he  did  that 
the  influence  of  Thrums  would  be  broken  forever. 

“  It’s  oncommon  foolish  o’  Rob,”  said  Pete  Todd,  re¬ 
treating  to  the  side  of  the  mole-catcher,  “  no’  to  be  mair 
resigned-like.” 

“  It’s  his  ind’pendence,”  answered  Jamie ;  “  ay,  the 
wriclit  was  sayin’  the  noo,  says  he,  ‘  If  Davy’s  deid, 

•Ni  _ 

Rob’ll  mak  the  coffin  ’imsel’,  he’s  sae  mighty  ind’pend- 
ent.’  ” 

Tammas  Ilaggart  stumbled  into  the  saw-miller’s 
kitchen.  It  would  have  been  a  womanish  kind  of  thing 
to  fling  to  the  door  behind  him.  - 

“  Fine  growin’  day,  Rob,”  he  said,  deliberately. 

“It  is  so,  Tammas,”  answered  the  saw-miller  hos¬ 
pitably,  for  Ilaggart  had  been  his  father’s  bosom 
friend. 


WHEN  A  MAN' S  SINGLE.  27 

“Ho’  much  drowth,  I’m  thinkin’,”  said  Hobart, 
relieved  by  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken. 

Tammas  pulled  from  beneath  the  table  an  unsteady 
three-legged  stool — Davy’s  stool — and  sat  down  on  it 
slowly.  Rob  took  a  step  nearer,  as  if  to  ask  him  to  sit 
somewhere  else,  and  then  turned  away  his  head. 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Haggart. 

Then,  as  he  saw  the  others  gathering  round  the  min¬ 
ister  at  the  door,  he  moved  uneasily  on  his  stool. 

“Whaur’s  Davy?  ”  he  said. 

“  Did  ye  no’  ken  she  was  lost  ?  ”  the  saw-miller 
asked,  in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  his  own. 

“  Ay,  I  kent,”  said  Tammas ;  “  she’s  on  the  Whunny 
road.” 

Rob  had  been  talking  to  the  minister  in  what  both 
thought  English,  which  in  Thrums  is  considered  an 
ostentatious  language,  but  he  turned  on  Tammas  in 
broad  Scotch.  In  the  years  to  come,  when  he  could 
wear  gloves  without  concealing  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
excitement  brought  on  Scotch  as  a  poultice  raises  blis¬ 
ters. 

“Tammas  Haggart,”  he  cried,  pulling  the  stone- 
breaker  off  his  stool. 

The  minister  interposed. 

“  Tell  us  what  you  know  at  once,  Tammas,”  said  Mr. 
Dishart,  who,  out  of  the  pulpit,  had  still  a  heart. 

It  was  a  sad  tale  that  Haggart  had  to  tell,  if  a  short 
one,  and  several  of  the  listeners  shook  their  heads  as 
they  heard  it. 


28 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


“  I  meant  to  turn  the  lassieky,”  the  stone-breaker 
explained,  “  but,  ou,  she  was  past  in  a  twinklin’ 

On  the  saw -mill  brig,  the  minister  quickly  organized 
a  search  party,  the  brig  that  Rob  had  floored  anew 
but  the  week  before,  rising  daily  with  the  sun  to  do  it 
because  the  child’s  little  boot  had  caught  in  a  worn 
board.  From  it  she  had  often  crooned  to  watch  the 
dank  mill-wheel  climbing  the  bouncing  burn.  Ah, 
Rob,  the  rotten  old  planks  would  have  served  your 
turn. 

“  The  Whunny  road,”  were  the  words  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  driblet  of  men  fell  into  line. 

Impetuous  is  youth,  and  the  minister  was  not  perhaps 
greatly  to  blame  for  starting  at  once.  But  Lang  Tarn- 
mas,  his  chief  elder,  paused  on  the  threshold. 

“  The  Lord  givetli,”  he  said,  solemnly,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  letting  the  night  air  cut  through  his  white 
hair,  “  and  the  Lord  taketh  away  :  blessed  be  the  name 
of  the  Lord.” 

The  saw-miller  opened  his  mouth,  but  no  words 
came. 

The  little  search  party  took  the  cold  Whunny  road. 
The  day  had  been  bright  and  fine,  and  still .  there  was 
a  smell  of  flowers  in  the  air.  The  fickle  flowers ! 
They  had  clustered  round  Davy  and  nestled  on  her 
neck,  when  she  drew  the  half-ashamed  saw-miller 
through  the  bleating  meadows,  and  now  they  could 
smile  on  him  when  he  came  alone — all  except  the 
daisies.  The  daisies,  that  cannot  play  a  child  false, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


29 


had  craned  tlieir  necks  to  call  Davy  back  as  she 
tripped  over  them,  and  bowed  their  heavy  little  heads 
as  she  toddled  on.  It  was  from  them  that  the  bairn’s 
track  was  learned  after  she  wandered  from  the 
Whunny  road. 

By  and  by  the  hills  ceased  to  echo  their  wailing 
response  to  Hobart’s  bell. 

Far  in  the  rear  of  the  more  eager  searchers  the  bell¬ 
man  and  the  joiner  had  found  a  seat  on  a  mossy  bank, 
and  others,  footsore  and  weary  had  fallen  elsewhere 
from  the  ranks.  The  minister  and  half  a  dozen  others 
scattered  over  the  fields  and  on  the  hillsides  despond¬ 
ent,  but  not  daring  to  lag.  Tinkers  cowered  round 
their  kettles  under  threatening  banks,  and  the  squirrels 
were  shadows  gliding  from  tree  to  tree. 

At  a  distant  smithy  a  fitful  light  still  winked  to  the 
wind,  but  the  farm  lamps  were  out  and  all  the  land 
was  hushed.  It  was  now  long  past  midnight  in 
country  parts. 

Rob  Angus  was  young  and  strong,  but  the  heaven¬ 
sent  gift  of  tears  was  not  for  him.  Blessed  the  moan¬ 
ing  mother  by  the  cradle  of  her  eldest-born,  and  the 
maid  in  tears  for  the  lover  who  went  out  so  brave  in 
the  morning  and  was  not  at  evenfall,  and  the  weeping 
sister  who  can  pray  for  her  soldier  brother,  and  the 
wife  on  her  husband’s  bosom. 

Some  of  his  neighbors  had  thought  it  unmanly  when 
Rob,  at  the  rumble  of  a  cart,  hurried  from  the  saw¬ 
mill  to  snatch  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  bear  her  to  a 


30 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


bed  of  shavings.  At  such  a  time  Davy  would  lift  a 
saw  to  within  an  inch  of  her  baby-face,  and  then,  let¬ 
ting  it  fall  with  a  wicked  chuckle,  run  to  the  saw- 
miller’s  arms,  as  sure  of  her  lover  as  ever  maiden  was 
of  man. 

A  bashful  lover  he  had  been,  shy,  not  of  Davy,  but 
of  what  men  would  say,  and  now  the  time  had  come 
when  he  looked  wistfully  back  to  a  fevered  child  toss¬ 
ing  in  a  dark  bed,  the  time  when  a  light  burned  all 
night  in  Rob’s  kitchen,  and  a  trembling,  heavy -eyed 
man  sat  motionless  on  a  high -backed  chair.  How  noise¬ 
lessly  he  approached  the  bonny  mite  and  replaced  the 
arm  that  had  wandered  from  beneath  the  coverlet ! 
Ah,  for  the  old  time  when  a  sick,  imperious  child  told 
her  uncle  to  lie  down  beside  her,  and  Rob  sat  on 
the  bed,  looking  shamefacedly  at  the  minister.  Mr. 
Dishart  had  turned  away  his  head.  Such  things  are 
not  to  be  told.  They  are  between  a  man  and  his  God. 

Far  up  the  Whunny  hill  they  found  Davy’s-  little 
shoe.  Rob  took  it  in  his  hand,  a  muddy,  draggled 
shoe  that  had  been  a  pretty  thing  when  he  put  it  on 
her  foot  that  morning.  The  others  gathered  austerely 
around  him,  and  strong  Rob  stood  still  among  the 
brackens. 

“  I’m  dootin’  she’s  deid,”  said  Tammas  Haggart. 

Haggart  looked  into  the  face  of  old  Rob’s  son,  and 
then  a  strange  and  beautiful  thing  happened.  To 
the  wizened  stone-breaker  it  was  no  longer  the  som¬ 
ber  Whunny  hill  that  lay  before  him.  Two  bare- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


81 


footed  herd-laddies  were  on  the  green  fields  of 
adjoining  farms.  The  moon  looking  oyer  the  hills 
found  them  on  their  ragged  backs,  with  the  cows 
munching  by  their  side.  They  had  grown  different 
boys,  nor  known  why,  among  the  wild  roses  of  red 
and  white,  and  trampling  neck-high  among  the  ferns. 
Haggart  saw  once  again  the  raspberry  bushes  they 
had  stripped  together  into  flagons  gleaming  in  the 
grass.  Rob  had  provided  the  bent  pin  with  which 
Tannnas  lured  his  first  trout  to  land,  and  Tammas  in 
return  had  invited  him  to  thraw  the  neck  of  a  doomed 
hen.  They  had  wandered  hand-in-hand  through 
thirsty  grass,  when  scythes  whistled  in  the  corn-fields, 
and  larks  thrilled  overhead,  and  braes  were  golden 
with  broom. 

They  are  two  broad-shouldered  men  now,  and  Hag- 
gart’s  back  is  rounding  at  the  loom.  From  his  broken 
window  he  can  see  Rob  at  the  saw-mill,  whistling  as 
the  wheel  goes  round.  It  is  Saturday  night,  and  they 
are  in  the  square,  clean  and  dapper,  talking  with 
other  gallants  about  lasses.  They  are  courting  the 
same  maid,  and  she  sits  on  a  stool  by  the  door,  knit¬ 
ting  a  stocking,  with  a  lover  on  each  side.  They 
drop  in  on  her  mother  straining  the  blaeberry  juice 
through  a  bag  suspended  between  two  chairs.  They 
sheepishly  admire  while  Easie  singes  a  hen  ;  for  love 
of  her  they  help  her  father  to  pit  his  potatoes ;  and 
then,  for  love  of  the  other,  each  gives  her  up.  It  is  a 
Friday  night,  and  from  a  but  and  ben  around  which 


32 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


the  rabble  heave  and  toss,  a  dozen  couples  emerge  in 
strangely  gay  and  bright  apparel.  Kob  leads  the 
way  with  one  lass,  and  Tammas  follows  with  another. 
It  must  be  Rob’s  wedding-day. 

Dim  grow  Tammas’  eyes  on  the  Whunny  hill. 
The  years  whirl  by,  and  already  he  sees  a  grumpy 
gravedigger  go  out  to  dig  Rob’s  grave.  Alas!  for 
the  flash  into  the  past  that  sorrow  gives.  As  he 
clutches  young  Rob’s  hand  the  light  dies  from  Tam¬ 
mas’  eyes,  his  back  grows  round  and  bent,  and  the 
hair  is  silvered  that  lay  in  tousled  locks  on  a  lad’s 
head. 

A  nipping  wind  cut  the  search  party  and  fled  down 
the  hill  that  was  changing  in  color  from  black  to 
gray.  The  searchers  might  have  been  smugglers 
laden  with  whiskey  bladders,  such  as  haunted  the 
mountain  in  bygone  days.  Far  away  at  Thrums 
mothers  still  wrung  their  hands  for  Davy,  but  the 
men  slept. 

Heads  were  bared,  and  the  minister  raised  his 
'yoice  in  prayer.  One  of  the  psalms  of  David  trem¬ 
bled  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  straight  to  heaven; 
and  then  two  young  men,  glancing  at  Mr.  Dishart, 
raised  aloft  a  fallen  rowan-tree,  to  let  it  fall  as  it 
listed.  It  fell  pointing  straight  down  the  hill,  and 
the  search  party  took  that  direction;  all  but  Rob, 
who  stood  motionless  with  the  shoe  in  his  hand. 
He  did  not  seem  to  comprehend  the  minister’s  beck¬ 
oning. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


33 


Haggart  took  him  by  the  arm. 

“Rob,  man,  Rob  Angus,”  he  said,  “she  was  but 
fower  year  auld.” 

The  stone-breaker  unbuttoned  his  trouser-pocket 
and  with  an  unsteady  hand  drew  out  his  snuff-mull. 
Rob  tried  to  take  it,  but  his  arm  trembled,  and  the 
mull  fell  among  the  heather. 

“  Keep  yourselves  from  idols,”  said  Lang  Tammas, 
sternly. 

But  the  minister  was  young,  and  children  lisped  his 
name  at  the  white  manse  among  the  trees  at  home. 
He  took  the  shoe  from  the  saw-miller  who  had  once 
been  independent,  and  they  went  down  the  hill  to- 
-  gether. 

Davy  lay  dead  at  the  edge  of  the  burn  that  gurgles 
on  to  the  saw-mill,  one  little  foot  washed  by  the  stream. 
The  Whunny  had  rocked  her  to  sleep  for  the  last  time. 
Half  covered  with  grass,  her  baby  fist  still  clutched 
the  letter.  When  Rob  saw  her,  he  took  his  darling 
dead  bairn  in  his  arms  and  faced  the  others  with  crack¬ 
ing  jaws. 

“  I  dinna  ken,”  said  Tammas  Haggart,  after  a  pause, 
“  but  what  it’s  kind  o’  nat’ral.” 

3 


\ 


CHAPTER  III. 


ROB  GOES  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD. 

One  evening,  nearly  a  month  after  Rob  Angus  be¬ 
came  “single,”  Mr.  George  Frederick  Licquorish,  editor 
and  proprietor  of  the  Silchester  Mirror ,  was  sitting  in 
his  office  cutting  advertisements  out  of  the  Silchester 
Argus ,  and  pasting  each  on  a  separate  sheet  of  paper. 
These  advertisements  had  not  been  sent  to  the  Mirror , 
and,  as  he  thought  this  a  pity,  he  meant,  through  his 
canvasser,  to  call  the  attention  of  the  advertisers  to 
the  omission. 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  a  stout  little  man,  with  a  benev¬ 
olent  countenance,  who  wrote  most  of  his  leaders  on 
the  backs  of  old  envelopes.  Every  few  minutes  he 
darted  into  the  composing-room,  with  an  alertness  that 
was  a  libel  on  his  genial  face ;  and  when  he  returned 
it  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  kindly,  good-natured 
manner  in  which  he  chaffed  the  printer’s  devil  who 
was  trying  to  light  the  fire.  It  was,  however,  also 
noticeable  that  what  the  devil  said  subsequently  to 
another  devil  was,  “  But,  you  know,  he  wouldn’t  give 
me  any  sticks.” 

The  Mirror  and  the  Argus  are  two  daily  news¬ 
papers  published  in  Silchester,  each  of  which  has  the 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


35 


largest  circulation  in  the  district,  and  is  therefore 
much  the  better  advertising  medium.  Silchester  is 
the  chief  town  of  an  English  midland  county,  and 
the  Mirror's  business  note-paper  refers  to  it  as  the 
center  of  a  population  of  half  a  million  souls. 

The  Alirror's  offices  are  nearly  crushed  out  of 
sight  in  a  block  of  buildings,  left  in  the  middle  of  a 
street  for  town  councils  to  pull  down  gradually.  This 
island  of  houses,  against  which  a  sea  of  humanity 
beats  daily,  is  cut  in  two  by  a  narrow  passage,  off 
which  several  doors  open.  One  of  these  leads  up  a 
dirty  stair  to  the  editorial  and  composing-rooms  of 
the  Daily  Mirror ,  and  down  a  dirty  stair  to  its  print¬ 
ing-rooms.  It  is  the  door  at  which  you  may  hammer 
for  an  hour  without  any  one’s  paying  the  least  atten¬ 
tion. 

During  the  time  the  boy  took  to  light  Mr.  Licquor- 
ish’s  fire,  a  young  man  in  a  heavy  overcoat  knocked 
more  than  once  at  the  door  in  the  alley,  and  then 
moved  off  as  if  somewhat  relieved  that  there  was  no 
response.  He  walked  round  and  round  the  block  of 
I  buildings,  gazing  upward  at  the  windows  of  the  com¬ 
posing-room  ;  and  several  times  he  ran  against  other 
pedestrians  on  whom  he  turned  fiercely,  and  would 
then  have  begged  their  pardons  had  he  known  what 
to  say.  Frequently  he  felt  in  his  pocket  to  see  if 
his  money  was  still  there,  and  once  he  went  behind  a 
door  and  counted  it.  There  was  three  pounds  seven¬ 
teen  shillings  altogether,  and  he  kept  it  in  a  linen 


36 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


bag  that  had  been  originally  made  for  carrying  worms 
in  when  he  went  fishing.  When  he  re-entered  the 
close  he  always  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  if  any  per¬ 
sons  emerged  from  the  Mirror  office  he  looked  after 
them.  They  were  mostly  telegraph  boys,  who  fluttered 
out  and  in. 

When  Mr.  Licquorish  dictated  an  article,  as  he  did 
frequently,  the  apprentice  reporter  went  into  the 
editor’s  room  to  take  it  down,  and  the  reporters 
always  asked  him,  as  a  favor,  to  shut  George  Frederick’s 
door  behind  him.  This  apprentice  reporter  did  the 
police  reports  and  the  magazine  notices,  and  he  won¬ 
dered  a  good  deal  whether  the  older  reporters  really 

did  like  brandy  and  soda.  The  reason  why  John 

% 

Milton,  which  was  the  unfortunate  name  of  this  boy, 
was  told  to  close  the  editorial  door  behind  him  was 
that  it  was  close  to  the  door  of  the  reporters’  room,  and 
generally  stood  open.  The  impression  the  reporters’ 
room  made  on  a  chance  visitor  varied  according  as 
Mr.  Licquorish’s  door  was  ajar  or  shut.  When  they 
heard  it  locked  on  the  inside,  the  reporters  and  the 
sub- editor  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief ;  when  it  opened 
they  took  their  legs  off  the  desk. 

The  editor’s  room  had  a  carpet,  and  was  chiefly 
furnished  with  books  sent  in  for  review.  It  was 
more  comfortable,  but  more  gloomy-looking  than  the 
reporters’  room,  which  had  a  long  desk  running  along 
one  side  of  it,  and  a  bunk  for  holding  coals  and  old 
newspapers  on  the  other  side.  The  floor  was  so  lit- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


37 


tered  with  papers,  many  of  them  still  in  their  wrap¬ 
pers,  that,  on  his  way  between  his  seat  and  the  door, 
the  reporter  generally  kicked  one  or  more  into  the 
hunk.  It  was  in  this  way,  unless  an  apprentice 
happened  to  he  otherwise  disengaged,  that  the  floor 
was  swept. 

In  this  room  were  a  reference  library  and  an  old  coat. 
The  library  was  within  reach  of  the  sub-editor’s  hand, 
jtnd  contained  some  fifty  books,  which  the  literary 
staff  could  consult,  with  the  conviction  that  they 
would  find  the  page  they  wanted  missing.  The  coat 
had  hung  unbrushed  on  a  nail  for  many  years,  and 
tvas  so  thick  with  dust  that  John  Milton  could  draw 
pictures  on  it  with  his  finger.  According  to  legend,  it 
was  the  coat  of  a  distinguished  novelist,  who  had  once 
been  a  reporter  on  the  Mirror ,  and  had  left  Silchester 
anostentatiously  by  his  window. 

It  was  Penny,  the  foreman  in  the  composing-room, 
who  set  the  literary  staff  talking  about  the  new  re¬ 
porter.  Penny  was  a  lank,  loosely- jointed  man  of  forty, 
who  shuffled  about  the  office  in  slippers,  ruled  the 
compositors  with  a  loud  voice  and  a  blustering  manner, 
and  was  believed  to  be  in  Mr.  Licquorish’s  confidence. 
His  politics  were  respect  for  the  House  of  Lords,  be¬ 
cause  it  rose  early,  enabling  him  to  have  it  set  before 
supper  time. 

The  foreman  slithered  so  quickly  from  one  room  to 
another  that  he  was  at  the  sub-editor’s  elbow  before 
his  own  door  had  time  to  shut.  There  was  some  copy 


38 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


in  his  hand,  and  he  flung  it  contemptuously  upon  the 
desk. 

“  Look  here,  mister,”  he  said,  flinging  the  copy 
upon  the  sub-editor’s  desk,  “  I  don’t  want  that.” 

The  sub-editor  was  twisted  into  as  little  space  as 
possible,  tearing  telegrams  open  and  flinging  the  en¬ 
velopes  aside,  much  as  a  housewife  shells  peas.  His 
name  was  Protheroe,  and  the  busier  he  was  the  more 
he  twisted  himself.  On  Budget  nights  he  was  a  knot. 
He  did  voluntarily  so  much  extra  work  that  Mr. 
Licquorish  often  thought  he  gave  him  too  high  wages ; 
and  on  slack  nights  he  smiled  to  himself,  which  showed 
that  something  pleased  him.  It  was  rather  curious 
that  this  something  should  have  been  himself. 

“  But — but,”  cried  Protheroe,  all  in  a  flutter,  “  it’s 
town  council  meeting ;  it — it  must  be  set,  Mr.  Penny.” 

“  Very  well,  mister ;  then  that  special  from  Birm¬ 
ingham  must  be  slaughtered.” 

“  No,  no,  Mr.  Penny ;  why,  that’s  a  speech  by 
Bright.” 

Penny  sneered  at  the  sub-editor,  and  flung  up  his 
arms  to  imply  that  he  washed  his  hands  of  the  whole 
thing,  as  he  had  done  every  night  for  the  last  ten 
years,  wrhen  there  was  pressure  on  his  space.  Pro¬ 
theroe  had  been  there  for  half  of  that  time,  yet  he  still 
trembled  before  the  autocrat  of  the  office. 

“  There’s  enough  copy  on  the  board,”  said  Penny, 
“  to  All  the  paper.  Any  more  specials  coming 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


39 


He  asked  this  fiercely,  as  if  of  opinion  that  the  sub¬ 
editor  arranged  with  leading  statesmen  nightly  to 
flood  the  composing-room  of  the  Afirror  with 
speeches,  and  Protheroe  replied  abjectly,  as  if  he  had 
been  caught  doing  it — “Lord  John  Manners  is  speak¬ 
ing  at  Nottingham.” 

The  foreman  dashed  his  hand  upon  the  desk. 

“Go  it,  mister,  go  it,”  he  cried;  “anything  else? 
Tell  me  Gladstone’s  dead  next.” 

Sometimes  about  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  Penny 
would  get  sociable,  and  the  sub-editor  was  always 
glad  to  respond.  On  those  occasions  thej^  talked  with 
bated  breath  of  the  amount  of  copy  that  would  come 
in  should  anything  happen  to  Mr.  Gladstone  ;  and  the 
sub-editor,  if  he  was  in  a  despondent  mood,  predicted 
that  it  would  occur  at  midnight.  Thinking  of  this 
had  made  him  a  Conservative. 

“  Nothing  so  bad  as  that,”  he  said,  dwelling  on  the 
subject,  to  show  the  foreman  that  they  might  be 
worse  off ;  “  but  there’s  a  column  of  local  coming  in, 
and  a  concert  in  the  People’s  Hall,  and - ” 

“  And  you  expect  me  to  set  all  that  ?  ”  the  foreman 
broke  in.  “  Why,  the  half  of  that  local  should  have 
been  set  by  seven  o’clock,  and  here  I’ve  only  got  the 
beginning  of  the  town  council  yet.  It’s  ridiculous.” 

Protheroe  looked  timidly  toward  the  only  reporter 
present,  and  then  apologetically  toward  Penny  for  hav¬ 
ing  looked  at  the  reporter. 

“The  stuff  must  be  behind,”  growled  Tomlinson, 


40 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


nicknamed  Umbrage,  “as  long  as  we’re  a  man 
short.” 

Umbrage  was  very  short  and  stout,  with  a  big 
moon  face,  and  always  wore  his  coat  unbuttoned. 
In  the  streets,  if  he  was  walking  fast  and  there  was  a 
breeze,  his  coat-tails  seemed  to  be  running  after  him. 
He  squinted  a  little,  from  a  habit  he  had  of  looking 
sideways  at  public  meetings  to  see  if  the  audience  was 
gazing  at  him.  He  was  “Juvenal”  in  the  Mirror  on 
Friday  mornings,  and  headed  his  column  of  local 
gossip  which  had  that  signature,  “Now  step  I  forth  to 
whip  hypocrisy.” 

“  I  wonder,”  said  the  sub-editor,  with  an  insinuat¬ 
ing  glance  at  the  foreman,  “  if  the  new  man  is  ex¬ 
pected  to-night.” 

Mr.  Licquorish  had  told  him  that  this  was  so  an 
hour  before,  but  the  cunning  bred  of  fear  advised 
him  to  give  Penny  the  opportunity  of  divulging  the 
news. 

That  worthy  smiled  to  himself,  as  any  man  has  a 
right  to  do  who  has  been  told  something  in  confidence 
by  his  employer. 

“He’s  a  Yorksliireman,  I  believe,”  continued  the 
crafty  Protheroe. 

“  That’s  all  you  know,”  said  the  foreman,  first 
glancing  back  to  see  if  Mr.  Licquorish’s  door  was 
shut.  “  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  told  me  all  about 
him ;  he’s  a  Scotsman  called  Angus,  that’s  never  been 
out  of  his  native  county.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


41 


“  He’s  one  of  those  compositors  taken  to  literature, 
is  he?”  asked  Umbrage,  who  by  literature  meant  re¬ 
porting,  pausing  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  he  was 
transcribing  from  his  note-book.  “  Just  as  I  expected,” 
he  added,  contemptuously. 

“  No,”  said  the  foreman,  thawing  in  the  rays  of  such 
ignorance;  “Mr.  George  Frederick  says  he’s  never 
been  on  a  newspaper  before.” 

“An  outsider!”  cried  Umbrage,  in  the  voice  with 
which  outsiders  themselves  would  speak  of  reptiles. 
“  They  are  the  ruin  of  the  profession,  they  are.” 

“He’ll  make  you  all  sit  up,  mister,”  said  Penny, 
with  a  chuckle.  “  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  had  his 
eye  on  him  for  a  twelvemonth.” 

“  T  don’t  suppose  you  know  how  Mr.  George  Fred¬ 
erick  fell  in  with  him  ?  ”  said  the  sub-editor,  basking 
in  Penny’s  geniality. 

“  Mr.  George  Frederick  told  me  everything  about 
him — everything,”  said  the  foreman,  proudly.  “It 
was  a  parson  that  recommended  him.” 

“A  parson!”  ejaculated  Umbrage,  in  such  a  tone 
that  if  you  had  not  caught  the  word  you  might  have 
thought  he  was  saying  “An  outsider  !  ”  again. 

“  Yes,  a  parson  whose  sermon  this  Angus  took  down 
in  shorthand,  I  fancy.” 

“  What  was  he  doing,  taking  down  a  sermon  ?  ” 

“  I  suppose  he  was  there  to  hear  it.” 

“  And  this  is  the  kind  of  man  who  is  taking  to 
literature  nowadays !  ”  Umbrage  cried. 


42 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE, 


“Oh,  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  heard  a  great  deal 
about  him,”  continued  Penny,  maliciously,  “  and  ex¬ 
pects  him  to  do  wonders.  He’s  a  self-made  man.” 

“Oh,”  said  Umbrage,  who  could  find  nothing  to 
object  to  in  that,  having  risen  from  comparative  ob¬ 
scurity  himself. 

“Mr.  George  Frederick,”  Penny  went  on,  “offered 
him  a  berth  here  before  Billy  Tagg  was  engaged,  but 
he  couldn’t  come.” 

“  I  suppose,”  said  Juvenal,  with  the  sarcasm  that 
made  him  terrible  on  Fridays,  “  the  Times  offered  him 
something  better,  or  was  it  the  Spectator  that  wanted 
an  editor  ?  ” 

“Yo,  it  was  family  matters.  His  mother  or  his 
sister,  or — let  me  see,  it  was  his  sister’s  child — was 
dependent  on  him,  and  could  not  be  left.  Something 
happened  to  her,  though.  She’s  dead,  I  think,  so  he’s 
a  free  man  now.” 

“Yes,  it  was  his  sister’s  child,  and  she  was  found 
dead,”  said  the  sub-editor,  “on  a  mountain-side,  curi¬ 
ously  enough,  with  George  Frederick’s  letter  in  her 
hand  offering  Angus  the  appointment.” 

Protheroe  was  foolish  to  admit  that  he  knew  this, 
for  it  was  news  to  the  foreman,  but  it  tries  a  man 
severely  to  have  to  listen  to  news  that  he  could  tell 
better  himself.  One  immediate  result  of  the  sub¬ 
editor’s  rashness  was  that  Rob  Angus  sunk  several 
stages  in  Penny’s  estimation. 

‘I  dare  say  he’ll  turn  out  a  muff,”  he  said,  and 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


43 


flung  out  of  the  room,  with  another  intimation  that 
the  copy  must  be  cut  down. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Protheroe  had  half  a  dozen 
things  to  do  at  once,  and  did  them. 

Telegraph  hoys  were  dropping  the  beginning  of 
Lord  John  Manners’  speech  through  a  grating  on  to 
the  sub-editorial  desk  long  before  he  had  reached  the 
end  of  it  at  Nottingham. 

The  sub-editor  had  to  revise  this  as  it  arrived  in 
flimsy,  and  write  a  summary  of  it  at  the  same  time. 
His  summary  was  set  before  all  the  speech  had  reached 
the  office,  which  may  seem  strange.  But  when  Penny 
cried  aloud  for  summary,  so  that  he  might  get  that 
column  off  his  hands,  Protheroe  made  guesses  at  many 
things,  and,  risking,  “the  right  hon.  gentleman  con¬ 
cluded  his  speech,  which  was  attentively  listened  to, 
with  some  further  references  to  current  topics,”  flung 
Lord  John  to  the  boy,  who  rushed  with  him  to  Penny, 
from  whose  hand  he  was  snatched  by  a  compositor. 
Fifteen  minutes  afterwards  Lord  John  concluded  his 
speech  at  Nottingham. 

About  half -past  nine  Protheroe  seized  his  hat  and 
rushed  home  for  supper.  In  the  passage  he  nearly 
knocked  himself  over  by  running  against  the  young 
man  in  the  heavy  top-coat.  Umbrage  went  out  to 
see  if  he  could  gather  any  information  about  a  prize¬ 
fight.  John  Milton  came  in  with  a  notice  of  a  con¬ 
cert,  which  he  stuck  conspicuously  on  the  chief  re¬ 
porter’s  file.  When  the  chief  reporter  came  in,  he 


44 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


glanced  through  it  and  made  a  few  alterations,  chang¬ 
ing  “Mr.  Joseph  Grimes  sang  out  of  tune,”  for  in¬ 
stance,  to  Mr.  Grimes,  the  favorite  vocalist,  was  in  ex¬ 
cellent  voice.”  The  concert  was  not  quite  over  yet, 
either ;  they  seldom  waited  for  the  end  of  anything  on 
the  Mirror. 

When  Umbrage  returned,  Billy  Kirker,  the  chief 
reporter,  was  denouncing  John  Milton  for  not  being 
able  to  tell  him  how  to  spell  “  deceive.” 

“  What  is  the  use  of  you  ?  ”  he  asked,  indignantly, 
“  if  you  can’t  do  a  simple  thing  like  that  ?  ” 

“  Say  ‘cheat,’  ”  suggested  Umbrage. 

So  Kirker  wrote  “cheat.”  Though  he  was  the 
chief  of  the  Mirror's  reporting  department,  he  had 
only  Umbrage  and  John  Milton  at  present  under 
him. 

As  Kirker  sat  in  the  reporters’  room  looking  over 
his  diary,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  he  was  an 
advertisement  for  the  Mirror ,  and  if  he  paid  for  his 
velvet  coat  out  of  his  salary,  the  paper  was  in  a 
healthy  financial  condition.  He  was  tall,  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  and  extremely  slight.  His  manner 
was  languid,  though  his  language  was  sometimes 
forcible,  but  those  who  knew  him  did  not  think  him 
mild.  This  evening  his  fingers  looked  bare  without 
the.  diamond  ring  that  sometimes  adorned  them. 
This  ring,  it  was  noticed,  generally  disappeared 
about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  his  scarf-pin  fol¬ 
lowed  it  by  the  twenty-first.  With  the  beginning  of 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


45 


the  month  they  reappeared  together.  The  literary  staff 
was  paid  monthly. 

Mr.  Licquorish  looked  in  at  the  door  of  the  report¬ 
er’s  room  to  ask  pleasantly  if  they  would  not  like  a 
fire.  Had  Protheroe  been  there  he  would  have  said 
“No;”  but  Billy  Kirker  said  “Yes.”  Mr.  Licquorish 
had  thought  that  Protheroe  was  there. 

This  was  the  first  fire  in  the  reporters’  room  that 
season,  and  it  smoked.  Kirker,  left  alone,  flung  up  the 
window,  and  gradually  became  aware  that  someone 
with  a  heavy  tread  was  walking  up  and  down  the  alley. 
He  whistled  gently  in  case  it  should  be  a  friend  of  his 
own,  but,  getting  no  response,  resumed  his  work.  Mr. 
Licquorish  also  heard  the  footsteps,  but  though  he 
was  waiting  for  the  new  reporter,  he  did  not  connect  * 
him  with  the  man  outside. 

Hob  had  stopped  at  the  door  a  score  of  times,  and 
then  turned  away.  He  had  arrived  at  Silchester  in  the 
afternoon,  and  come  straight  to  the  Mirror  office  to 
look  at  it.  Then  he  had  set  out  in  quest  of  lodgings, 
and,  having  got  them,  had  returned  to  the  passage. 
He  was  not  naturally  a  man  crushed  by  a  sense  of  his 
own  unworthiness,  but,  looking  up  at  these  windows 
and  at  the  shadows  that  passed  them  every  moment, 
he  felt  far  away  from  his  saw- mill.  What  a  romance 
to  him,  too,  was  in  the  glare  of  the  gas  and  in  the 
Mirror  bill  that  was  being  reduced  to  pulp  on  the  wall 
at  the  mouth  of  the  close !  It  had  begun  to  rain  heav- 


46 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


ily,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  want  of  an  umbrella,  never 
having  possessed  one  in  Thrums. 

Fighting  down  the  emotions  that  had  mastered  him 
so  often,  he  turned  once  more  to  the  door,  and  as 
he  knocked  more  loudly  than  formerly,  a  compositor 
came  out,  who  told  him  what  to  do  if  he  was  there 
on  business. 

“  Go  upstairs,”  he  said,  “  till  you  come  to  a  door, 
and  then  kick.” 

Rob  did  not  have  to  kick,  however,  for  he  met 
Mr.  Licquorish  coming  downstairs,  and  both  half 
stopped. 

“  Not  Mr.  Angus,  is  it?”  asked  Mr.  Licquorish. 

“  Yes,”  said  the  new  reporter,  the  monosyllable  also 
telling  that  he  was  a  Scotsman  and  that  he  did  not 
feel  comfortable. 

Mr.  Licquorish  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and 
took  him  into  the  editor’s  room.  Rob  sat  in  a  chair 
there  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  while  his  new  employer 
spoke  kindly  to  him  about  the  work  that  would  begin 
on  the  morrow. 

“  You  will  find  it  a  little  strange  at  first,”  he  said ; 
“  but  Mr.  Kirker,  the  head  of  our  reporting  staff,  has 
been  instructed  to  explain  the  routine  of  the  office 
to  you,  and  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  work  well 
together.” 

Rob  said  he  meant  to  do  his  best. 

“  It  is  our  desire,  Mr.  Angus,”  continued  Mr.  Lic¬ 
quorish,  “  to  place  every  facility  before  our  staff,  and 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


47 


if  you  have  suggestions  to  make  at  any  time  on  any 
matter  connected  with  your  work  we  shall  be  most 
happy  to  consider  them  and  to  meet  you  in  a  cordial 
spirit.” 

While  Rob  was  thanking  Mr.  Licquorish  for  his  con¬ 
sideration,  Kirker  in  the  next  room  was  wondering 
whether  the  new  reporter  was  to  have  half  a  crown  a 
week  less  than  his  predecessor,  who  had  begun  with 
six  pounds  a  month. 

“It  is  pleasant  to  us,”  Mr.  Licquorish  concluded, 
referring  to  the  novelist,  “  to  know  that  we  have  sent 
out  from  this  office  a  number  of  men  who  subsequently 
took  a  high  place  in  literature.  Perhaps  our  system 
of  encouraging  talent  by  fostering  it  has  had  some¬ 
thing  to  do  with  this,  for  we  like  to  give  every  one  his 
opportunity  to  rise.  I  hope  the  day  will  come,  Mr. 
Angus,  when  we  shall  be  able  to  recall  with  pride  the 
fact  that  you  began  your  literary  career  on  the 
Mirror .” 

Rob  said  he  hoped  so  too.  He  had,  indeed,  very 
little  doubt  of  it.  At  this  period  of  his  career  it  made 
him  turn  white  to  think  that  he  might  not  yet  be 
famous. 

“  But  I  must  not  keep  you  here  any  longer,”  said  the 
editor,  rising,  “  for  you  have  had  a  weary  journey,  and 
must  be  feeling  tired.  We  shall  see  you  at  ten  o’clock 
to-morrow  ?  ” 

Once  more  Rob  and  his  employer  shook  hands 
heartily. 


48 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  But  I  might  introduce  you,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish, 
“to  the  reporting-room.  Mr.  Kirker,  our  chief,  is.  I 
think,  here.” 

Rob  had  begun  to  descend  the  stairs,  but  he  turned 
back.  He  was  not  certain  what  you  did  when  you 
were  introduced  to  any  one,  such  formalities  being 
unknown  in  Thrums  ;  but  he  held  himself  in  reserve 
to  do  as  the  other  did. 

“  Ah,  Mr.  Kirker,”  said  the  editor,  pushing  open  the 
door  of  the  reporting-room  with  his  foot,  “  this  is  Mr. 
Angus,  who  has  just  joined  our  literary  staff.” 

Nodding  genially  to  both,  Mr.  Licquorish  darted  out 
of  the  room ;  but  before  the  door  had  finished  its  swing, 
Mr.  Kirker  was  aware  that  the  new  reporter’s  nails 
had  a  rim  of  black. 

“  What  do  you  think  of  George  Frederick  ?  ”  asked 
the  chief,  after  he  had  pointed  out  to  Rob  the  only 
chair  that  such  a  stalwart  reporter  might  safely  sit 
on. 

“  He  was  very  pleasant,”  said  Rob. 

“Yes,”  said  Billy  Kirker,  thoughtfully,  “there’s 
nothing  George  Frederick  wouldn’t  do  for  any  one  if 
it  could  be  done  gratis.” 

“  And  he  struck  me  as  an  enterprising  sort  of 
man.” 

“  ‘  Enterprise  without  outlay  ’  is  the  motto  of  this 
office,”  said  the  chief. 

“  But  the  paper  seems  to  be  well  conducted,”  said 
Rob,  a  little  crestfallen. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


49 


“The  worst  conducted  in  England,”  said  Kirker, 
cheerfully. 

Rob  asked  how  the  Mirror  compared  with  the 
Argus. 

“  They  have  six  reporters  to  our  three,”  said  Kirker, 
“  but  we  do  double  work  and  beat  them.” 

“  I  suppose  there  is  a  great  deal  of  rivalry  between 
the  staffs  of  the  two  papers  ?  ”  Rob  asked,  for  he  had 
read  of  such  things. 

“  Oh,  no  !  ”  said  Kirker,  “  we  help  each  other.  For 
instance,  if  Daddy  Walsh,  the  Argus  chief,  is  drunk, 
I  help  him;  and  if  I’m  drunk,  he  helps  me.  I’m 
going  down  to  the  Frying  Pan  to  see  him  now.” 

“  The  Frying  Pan  ?  ”  echoed  Rob. 

“  It’s  a  literary  club,”  Kirker  explained,  “  and  very 
exclusive.  If  you  come  with  me  I’ll  introduce  you.” 

Rob  was  somewhat  taken  aback  at  what  he  had 
heard,  but  he  wanted  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his 
fellow-workers. 

“Not  to-night,”  he  said.  “I  think  I’d  better  be 
getting  home  now.” 

Kirker  lit  another  cigarette,  and  saying  he  would 
expect  Rob  at  the  office  next  morning,  strolled  off. 
The  new  reporter  was  undecided  whether  to  follow 
him  at  once,  or  to  wait  for  Mr.  Licquorish’s  re¬ 
appearance.  He  was  looking  round  the  office  curiously, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Kirker  put  his  head  in. 

“  By  the  by,  old  chap,”  he  said,  “  could  you  lend  me 
five  bob  ?  ” 

.  4 


50 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Yes,  yes,'*  said  the  new  reporter. 

He  had  to  undo  the  string  of  his  money-hag,  but 
the  chief  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  smile. 

“Thanks,  old  man,”  Kirker  said,  carelessly,  and 
again  withdrew. 

The  door  of  the  editor’s  room  was  open  as  Rob 
passed. 

“  Ah,  Mr.  Angus,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  “  here  are  a 
number  of  books  for  review;  you  might. do  a  short 
notice  of  some  of  them.” 

He  handed  Rob  the  two  works  that  happened  to 
lie  uppermost,  and  the  new  reporter  slipped  them  into 
his  pockets  with  a  certain  elation.  The  night  was 
dark  and  wet,  but  he  lit  his  pipe  and  hurried  up  the 
muddy  streets  to  the  single  room  that  was  now  his 
home.  Probably  his  were  the  only  lodgings  in  his 

street  that  had  not  the  portrait  of  a  young  lady  on  the 

/ 

mantelpiece.  On  his  way  he  passed  three  noisy 
young  men.  They  were  Kirker  and  the  two  reporters 
on  the  Argus  trying  which  could  fling  his  hat  highest 
in  the  rain. 

Sitting  in  his  lonely  room  Rob  examined  his  books 
with  interest.  One  of  them  was  Tennyson’s  new 
volume  of  poems,  and  a  month  afterwards  the  poet 
laureate’s  publishers  made  Rob  march  up  the  streets 
of  Silchester  with  his  chest  well  forward,  by  advertis¬ 
ing  “  The  Silchester  Mirror  says,  ‘  This  admirable 
volume.’”  After  all,  the  great  delight  of  being  on 
the  press  is  that  you  can  patronize  the  Tennysons. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


51 


Doubtless  the  poet  laureate  got  a  marked  copy  of  Rob’s 
first  review  forwarded  him,  and  had  an  anxious  moment 
till  he  saw  that  it  was  favorable.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  even  John  Milton  felt  a  thrill  pass  through 
him  as  he  saw  Messrs.  Besant  and  Rice,  boasting  that 
he  thought  their  “  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet  ”  a  novel  of 
sustained  interest,  “  which  we  have  read  without 
fatigue.” 

Rob  sat  over  his  empty  grate  far  on  into  the  night, 
his  mind  in  a  jumble.  As  he  grew  more  composed  the 
Mirror  and  its  staff  sank  out  of  sight,  and  he  was  car¬ 
rying  a  dead  child  in  his  arms  along  the  leafy  Whunny 
road.  His  mouth  twitched,  and  his  head  drooped.  He 
was  preparing  to  go  to  bed  when  he  sat  down  again  to 
look  at  the  other  book.  It  was  a  novel  by  “  M.”  in  one 
thin  volume,  and  Rob  thought  the  title,  “  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns,”  foolish.  He  meant  to  write  an  honest  criti¬ 
cism  of  it,  but  never  having  reviewed  a  book  before,  he 
rather  hoped  that  this  would  be  a  poor  one,  which  he 
could  condemn  brilliantly.  Poor  Rob !  he  came  to 
think  more  of  that  book  by  and  by. 

At  last  Rob  wound  up  the  big  watch  that  neighbors 
had  come  to  gaze  at  when  his  father  bought  it  of  a  ped¬ 
dler  forty  years  before,  and  took  off  the  old  silver  chain 
that  he  wore  round  his  neck.  He.  went  down  on  his 
knees  to  say  his  prayers,  and  then,  remembering  that 
he  had  said  them  already,  rose  up  and  went  to  bed. 


SIONITII 10  AliSiBMNrt 

AMvaan 


CHAPTER  IY. 


“THE  scorn  of  scorns.” 

St.  Leonard’s  Lodge  is  the  residence  of  Mr.  William 
Meredith,  an  ex-mayor  of  Silchester,  and  stands  in  the 
fashionable  suburb  of  the  town.  There  was  at  one 
time  considerable  intercourse  between  this  house  and 
Dome  Castle,  the  seat  of  Colonel  Abinger,  though  they 
are  five  miles  apart  and  in  different  counties  ;  and  one 
day,  after  Rob  had  been  on  the  press  for  a  few  months, 
two  boys  set  out  from  the  castle  to  show  themselves 
to  Nell  Meredith.  They  could  have  reached  the  high- 

s 

road  by  a  private  walk  between  a  beech  and  an  ivy 
hedge,  but  they  preferred  to  climb  down  a  steep  path 
to  the  wild  running  Dome.  The  advantage  of  this 
route  was  that  they  risked  their  necks  by  taking  it. 

Nell,  who  did  not  expect  visitors,  was  sitting  by  the 
fire  in  her  boudoir,  dreaming.  It  was  the  room  in 
which  she  and  Mary  Abinger  had  often  discussed  such 
great  questions  as  Woman,  her  Aims,  her  Influence; 
Man,  his  Instability,  his  Weakness,  his  Degeneration; 
the  Poor,  how  are  we  to  Help  them ;  why  Lady  Lucy 
Gilding  wears  Pink  when  Blue  is  obviously  her  Color. 

Nell  was  tucked  away  into  a  soft  arm-chair,  in 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


53 


which  her  father  never  saw  her  without  wondering 
that  such  a  little  thing  should  require  eighteen  yards 
for  a -dress. 

“  I’m  not  so  little,”  she  would  say  on  these  occasions, 
and  then  Mr.  Meredith  chuckled,  for  he  knew  that 
there  were  young  men  who  considered  his  Kell  tall 
and  terrible.  He  liked  to  watch  her  sweeping  through 
a  room.  To  him  the  boudoir  was  a  sea  of  reefs. 
Kell’s  dignity  when  she  was  introduced  to  a  young 
gentleman  was  another  thing  her  father  could  never 
look  upon  without  awe,  but  he  also  noticed  that  it  soon 
wore  off. 

On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  comb  and  several  hairpins. 
There  are  few  more  mysterious  things  than  hairpins. 
So  far  back  as  we  can  go  into  the  past  we  see  woman 
putting  up  her  hair.  It  is  said  that  married  men 
lose  their  awe  of  hairpins  and  clean  their  pipes  with 
them. 

A  pair  of  curling-tongs  had  a  chair  to  themselves 
near  Kell,  and  she  wore  a  short  blue  dressing- jacket. 
Probably  when  she  woke  from  her  reverie  she  meant 
to  do  something  to  her  brown  hair.  When  old  gentle¬ 
men  called  at  the  lodge  they  frequently  told  their  host 
that  he  had  a  very  pretty  daughter ;  when  younger 
gentlemen  called  they  generally  called  again,  and  if 
Kell  thought  they  admired  her  the  first  time  she 
spared  no  pains  to  make  them  admire  her  still  more 
the  next  time.  This  was  to  make  them  respect  their 
own  judgment. 


54 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


It  was  little  Will  Abinger  who  had  set  Nell  a-dream- 
ing,  for  from  wondering  if  he  was  home  yet  for  the 
Christmas  holidays  her  thoughts  wandered  to  his 
sister  Mary,  and  then  to  his  brother  Dick.  She 
thought  longer  of  Dick  in  his  lonely  London  chambers 
than  of  the  others,  and  by  and  by  she  was  saying  to 
herself  petulantly,  “I  wish  people  would  go  dying 
and  leaving  me  money.”  Mr.  Meredith,  and  still  more 
Mrs.  Meredith,  thought  that  their  only  daughter,  an 
heiress,  would  be  thrown  away  on  Richard  Abinger, 
barrister-at-law,  whose  blood  was  much  bluer  than 
theirs,  but  who  was,  nevertheless,  understood  to  be  as 
hard  up  as  his  father. 

•• 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  two  callers  were  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room  without  Nell’s  knowing  it. 
One  of  them  left  his  companion  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Mere¬ 
dith,  and  clattered  upstairs  in  search  of  the  daughter 
of  the  house.  He  was  a  bright-faced  boy  of  thirteen, 
with  a  passion  for  flinging  stones,  and,  of  late,  he  had 
worn  his  head  in  the  air,  not  because  he  was  conceited, 
but  that  he  might  look  with  admiration  upon  the  face 
of  the  young  gentleman  downstairs. 

Bouncing  into  the  parlor,  he  caught  sight  of  the 
object  of  his  search  before  she  could  turn  her  head. 

“I  say,  Nell,  I’m  back.” 

Miss  Meredith  jumped  from  her  chair. 

“Will!”  she  cried. 

When  the  visitor  saw  this  young  lady  coming 
toward  him  quickly,  he  knew  what  she  was  after, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  55 

and  tried  to  get  out  of  her  way.  But  Nell  kissed 
him. 

“  Now,  then,”  he  said,  indignantly,  pushing  her  from 
him. 

Will  looked  round  him  fearfully,  and  then  closed  the 
door. 

“  You  might  have  waited  till  the  door  was  shut,  at 
any  rate,”  he  grumbled.  “  It  would  have  been  a  nice 
thing  if  any  one  had  seen  you !  ” 

“Why,  what  would  it  have  mattered,  you  horrid 
little  boy  !  ”  said  Nell. 

“  Little  boy !  I’m  bigger  than  you,  at  any  rate.  As 
for  its  not  mattering — but  you  don’t  know  who  is  down¬ 
stairs.  The  captain - ” 

“  Captain  !  ”  cried  Nell. 

She  seized  her  curling-tongs. 

“  Yes,”  said  Will,  watching  the  effect  of  his  words, 
“  Greybrooke,  the  captain  of  the  school.  He  is  giving 
me  a  week  just  now.” 

Will  said  this  as  proudly  as  if  his  guest  was  Napo¬ 
leon  Bonaparte,  but  Nell  laid  down  her  curling-irons. 
The  intruder  interpreted  her  action  and  resented  it. 

“You’re  not  his  style,”  he  said;  “he  likes  bigger 
women.” 

“Oh,  does  he?”  said  Nell,  screwing  up  her  little 
Greek  nose  contemptuously. 

“He’s  eighteen,”  said  Will. 

“  A  mere  schoolboy.” 

“Why,  he  shaves.” 


56 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Doesn’t  the  master  whip  him  for  that  ?  ” 

“  What  ?  Whip  Greybrooke !  ” 

Will  laughed  hysterically. 

“You  should  just  see  him  at  breakfast  with  old 
Jerry.  Why,  I’ve  seen  him  myself,  when  half  a  dozen 
of  us  were  asked  to  tea  by  Mrs.  Jerry,  and  though  we 
were  frightened  to  open  our  mouths,  what  do  you  think 
Greybrooke  did?” 

“  Something  silly,  I  should  say.” 

“  lie  asked  old  Jerry,  as  cool  as  you  like,  to  pass  the 
butter !  That’s  the  sort  of  fellow  Greybrooke  is.” 

“  How  is  Mary  ?” 

“  Oh,  she’s  all  right.  No,  she  has  a  headache.  I  say, 
Greybrooke  says  Mary’s  rather  slow.” 

“  He  must  be  a  horror,”  said  Nell,  “  and  I  don’t  see 
why  you  brought  him  here.” 

“  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  him,”  explained 
Will.  “  He  made  a  hundred  and  three  against  Rugby, 
and  was  only  bowled  off  his  pads.” 

“Well,”  said  Nell,  yawning,  “I  suppose  I  must  go 
down  and  meet  your  prodigy.” 

Will,  misunderstanding,  got  between  her  and  the 
door. 

“You’re  not  going  down  like  that,”  he  said,  anxiously, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  that  included  the  dressing- 
jacket  and  the  untidy  hair.  “  Greybrooke’ s  so  par¬ 
ticular,  and  I  told  him  you  were  a  jolly  girl.” 

“What  else  did  you  tell  him?”  asked  Nell,  suspi¬ 
ciously. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


57 


“  Not  much,”  said  Will,  with  a  guilty  look. 

“  I  know  you  told  him  something  else  ?  ” 

“  I  told  him  you — you  were  fond  of  kissing  people.” 

“  Oh,  you  nasty  boy,  Will — as  if  kissing  a  child  like 
you  counted !  ” 

“Never  mind,”  said  Will,  soothingly,  “  Greybrooke’s 
not  the  fellow  to  tell  tales.  Besides,  I  know  you  girls 
can’t  help  it.  Mary’s  just  the  same.” 

“You  are  a  goose,  Will,  and  the  day  will  come  when 
you’ll  give  anything  for  a  kiss.” 

“You’ve  no  right  to  bring  such  charges  against  a 
fellow,”  said  Will,  indignantly,  strutting  to  the  door. 

Half-way  downstairs  he  turned  and  came  back. 

“  I  say,  Nell,”  he  said,  “  you — you,  when  you  come 
down,  you  won’t  kiss  Greybrooke  ?  ” 

Nell  drew  herself  up  in  a  way  that  would  have 
scared  any  young  man  but  Will. 

“  He’s  so  awfully  particular,”  Will  continued  apolo¬ 
getically. 

“  Was  it  to  tell  me  this  you  came  upstairs  ?” 

“No,  honor  bright,  it  wasn’t.  I  only  came  up  in 
case  you  should  want  to  kiss  me,  and  to — to  have  it 
over.” 

Nell  was  standing  near  Will,  and  before  he  could 
jump  back  she  slapped  his  face. 

The  snow  was  dancing  outside  in  a  light  win:1  when 
Nell  sailed  into  the  drawing-room.  She  could  probably 
still  inform  you  how  she  was  dressed,  but  that  even¬ 
ing  Will  and  the  captain  could  not  tell  Mary.  The 


58 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


captain  thought  it  was  a  reddish  dress  or  else  blue ; 
but  it  was  all  in  squares  like  a  draught-board,  accord¬ 
ing  to  Will.  Forty  minutes  had  elapsed  since  Will 
visited  her  upstairs,  and  now  he  smiled  at  the  conceit 
which  made  her  think  that  the  captain  would  succumb 
to  a  pretty  frock.  Of  course  Nell  had  no  such  thought. 
She  always  dressed  carefully  because — well,  because 
there  is  never  any  saying. 

Though  Miss  Meredith  froze  Greybrooke  with  a 
glance,  he  was  relieved  to  see  her.  Her  mother  had 
discovered  that  she  knew  the  lady  who  married  his 
brother,  and  had  asked  questions  about  the  baby.  He 
did  not  like  it.  These,  he  thought,  were  things  you 
should  pretend  not  to  know  about.  He  had  contrived 
to  keep  his  nieces  and  nephews  dark  from  the  fellows 
at  school,  though  most  of  them  would  have  been  too 
just  to  attach  any  blame  to  him.  Of  this  baby  he  was 
specially  ashamed,  because  they  had  called  it  after 
him. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  a  small,  stout  lady,  of  whose 
cleverness  her  husband  spoke  proudly  to  Nell,  but 
never  to  herself.  When  Nell  told  her  how  he  had 
talked,  she  exclaimed,  “  Nonsense  !  ”  and  then  waited 
to  hear  what  else  he  had  said.  She  loved  him,  but 
probably  no  woman  can  live  with  a  man  for  many 
years  without  having  an  indulgent  contempt  for  him, 
and  wondering  how  he  is  considered  a  good  man  of 
business.  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  was  a  terribly  active 
woman,  was  glad  to  leave  the  entertainment  of  her 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


59 


visitors  to  Nell,  and  that  young  lady  began  severely 
by  asking  “how  you  boys  mean  to  amuse  your¬ 
selves  ?  ” 

“  Do  you  keep  rabbits  ?  ”  she  said  to  the  captain, 
sweetly. 

“  I  say,  Nell !  ”  cried  Will,  warningly. 

“  I  have  not  kept  rabbits,”  Greybrooke  replied,  with 
simple  dignity,  “  since  I  was  a  boy.” 

“  I  told  you,”  said  Will,  “that  Greybrooke  was  old 
— why,  he’s  nearly  as  old  as  yourself.  She’s  older 
than  she  looks,  you  know,  Greybrooke.” 

The  captain  was  gazing  at  Nell  with  intense  admira¬ 
tion.  As  she  raised  her  head  indignantly  he  thought 
she  was  looking  to  him  for  protection.  That  was  a 
way  Nell  had. 

“  Abinger,”  said  the  captain  sternly,  “  shut  up.” 

“  Don’t  mind  him,  Miss  Meredith,”  he  continued ; 
“  he  doesn’t  understand  girls.” 

To  think  he  understands  girls  is  the  last  affront  a 
youth  pays  them.  When  he  ceases  trying  to  reduce 
them  to  fixed  principles  he  has  come  of  age.  Nell, 
knowing  this,  felt  sorry  for  Greybrooke,  for  she  fore¬ 
saw  what  he  would  have  to  go  through.  Her  man¬ 
ner  to  him  underwent  such  a  change  that  he  began 
to  have  a  high  opinion  of  himself.  This  is  often  called 
falling  in  love.  Will  was  satisfied  that  his  friend 
impressed  Nell,  and  he  admired  Greybrooke’s  polite¬ 
ness  to  a  chit  of  a  girl,  but  he  became  restless.  His 
eyes  wandered  to  the  piano,  and  he  had  a  lurking  fear 


60 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


that  Nell  would  play  something.  He  signed  to  the 
captain  to  get  up. 

“We’ll  have  to  be  going  now,”  he  said  at  last; 
“  good-bye.” 

Greybrooke  glared  at  Will,  forgetting  that  they  had 
arranged  beforehand  to  stay  as  short  a  time  as  possible. 

“  Perhaps  you  have  other  calls  to  make?  ”  said  Nell, 
who  had  no  desire  to  keep  them  there  longer  than  they 
cared  to  stay. 

“  Oh,  yes,”  said  Will. 

“  No,”  said  the  captain,  “  we  only  came  into  Sil- 
chester  with  Miss  Abinger’s  message  for  you.” 

“  Why,  Will !  ”  exclaimed  Nell,  “  you  never  gave  me 
any  message  ?  ” 

“  I  forgot  what  it  was,”  Will  explained,  cheerily ; 
“  something  about  a  ribbon,  I  think.” 

“I  did  not  hear  the  message  given,”  the  captain 
said,  in  answer  to  Nell’s  look,  “  but  Miss  Abingerhada 
headache,  and  I  think  Will  said  it  had  to  do  with  that.” 

“  Oh,  wait  a  bit,”  said  Will,  “  I  remember  some¬ 
thing  about  it  now.  Mary  saw  something  in  a  Sil- 
chester  paper,  the  Mirror ,  I  think,  that  made  her  cry, 
and  she  thinks  that  if  you  saw  it  you  would  cry  too. 
So  she  wants  you  to  look  at  it.” 

“  The  idea  of  Mary’s  crying  !  ”  said  Nell,  indignantly. 
“  But  did  she  not  give  you  a  note  ?  ” 

“  She  was  too  much  upset,”  said  Will,  signing  to 
the  captain  not  to  let  on  that  they  had  refused  to  wait 
for  the  note. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


61 


“  I  wonder  what  it  can  be,”  murmured  Nell. 

She  hurried  from  the  room  to  her  father’s  den,  and 
found  him  there  surrounded  by  newspapers. 

“  Is  there  anything  in  the  Mirror ,  father  ?  ”  she 
asked. 

“Nothing,”  said  Mr.  Meredith,  who  had  made  the 
same  answer  to  this  question  many  hundreds  of  times, 
“  nothing  except  depression  in  the  boot  trade.” 

“  It  can’t  be  that,”  said  Nell. 

“  Can’t  be  what  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  give  me  the  paper,”  cried  the  ex-mayor’s 
daughter  impatiently. 

She  looked  hastily  up  and  down  it,  with  an  invol¬ 
untary  glance  at  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages, 
turned  it  inside  out  and  outside  in,  and  then  ex¬ 
claimed,  “  Oh !  ”  Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  too  much 
accustomed  to  his  daughter’s  -impulses  to  think  that 
there  was  much  wrong,  listened  patiently  while  she 
ejaculated,  “  Horrid  !  ”  “  What  a  shame  !  ”  “  Oh,  I 

wish  I  was  a  man!  ”  and,  “Well,  I  can’t  understand 
it.”  When  she  tossed  the  paper  to  the  floor,  her 
face  was  red  and  her  body  trembled  with  excitement. 

“What  is  it,  Nelly?”  asked  her  father. 

Whether  Miss  Abinger  cried  over  the  Mirror  that 
day  is  not  to  be  known,  but  there  were  indignant  tears 
in  Nell’s  eyes  as  she  ran  upstairs  to  her  bedroom. 
Mr.  Meredith  took  up  the  paper  and  examined  it 
carefully  at  the  place  where  his  daughter  had  torn  it 
in  her  anger.  What  troubled  her  seemed  to  be  some- 


62 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


thing  in  the  book  notices,  and  he  concluded  that  it  must 
he  a  cruel  “  slating  ”  of  a  novel  in  one  volume  called 
“  The  Scorn  of  Scorns.”  Mr.  Meredith  remembered 
that  Nell  had  compelled  him  to  read  that  book  and  to 
say  that  he  liked  it. 

“  That’s  all,”  he  said  to  himself,  much  relieved. 

He  fancied  that  Nell,  being  a  girl,  was  distressed  to 
see  a  book  she  liked  called  “  the  sentimental  outpour¬ 
ings  of  some  silly  girl  who  ought  to  confine  her  writ¬ 
ing  to  copy-books.”  In  a  woman  so  much  excitement 
over  nothing  seemed  quite  a  natural  thing  to  Mr. 
Meredith.  The  sex  had  ceased  to  surprise  him. 
Having  retired  from  business,  Mr.  Meredith  now  did 
things  slowly  as  a  good  way  of  passing  the  time. 
He  had  risen  to  wealth  from  penury,  and  counted 
time  by  his  dining-room  chairs,  having  passed  through 
a  cane,  a  horsehair,  and  a  leather  period  before  arriv¬ 
ing  at  morocco.  Mrs.  Meredith  counted  time  by  the 
death  of  her  only  son. 

It  may  be  presumed  that  Nell  would  not  have 
locked  herself  into  her  bedroom  and  cried  and 
stamped  her  feet  on  an  imaginary  critic  had  “  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns  ”  not  interested  her  more  than  her 
father  thought.  She  sat  down  to  write  a  note  to  Mary. 
Then  she  tore  it  up,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Mary’s 
elder  brother,  beginning  with  the  envelope.  She  tore 
this  up  also,  as  another  idea  came  into  her  head.  She 
nodded  several  times  to  herself  over  this  idea,  as  a  sign 
that  the  more  she  thought  of  it  the  more  she  liked  it. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


63 


Then,  after  very  nearly  forgetting  to  touch  her  eyes 
with  something  that  made  them  look  less  red,  she  re¬ 
turned  to  the  drawing-room. 

“Will,”  she  said,  “have  you  seen  the  new  ponies 
papa  gave  me  on  my  birthday  ?  ” 

Will  leaped  to  his  feet. 

“  Come  on,  Greybrooke,”  he  cried,  making  for  the 
door. 

The  captain  hesitated. 

“Perhaps,”  said  Nell,  with  a  glance  at  him,  “Mr. 
Greybrooke  does  not  have  much  interest  in  horses  ?  ” 

“  Doesn’t  he,  just,”  said  Will :  “  why - ” 

“No,”  said  Greybrooke;  “but  I’ll  wait  here  for  you, 
Abinger.” 

Will  was  staggered.  For  a  moment  the  horrible 
thought  passed  through  his  mind  that  these  girls  had 
got  hold  of  the  captain.  Then  he  remembered. 

“  Come  on,”  he  said,  “  Nell  won’t  mind.” 

But  Greybrooke  had  a  delicious  notion  that  the 
young  lady  wanted  to  see  him  by  himself,  and  Will 
had  to  go  to  the  stables  alone. 

“  I  won’t  be  long,”  he  said  to  Greybrooke,  apologiz¬ 
ing  for  leaving  him  alone  with  a  girl.  “  Don’t  bother 
him  too  much,”  he  whispered  to  Nell  at  the  door. 

As  soon  as  Will  had  disappeared  Nell  turned  to 
Greybrooke. 

“  Mr.  Greybrooke  ”  she  said,  speaking  rapidly,  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  it  was  a  compliment  to  him  in  itself, 
“  there  is  something  I  should  like  you  to  do  for  me.” 


64 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


The  captain  flushed  with  pleasure. 

“  There  is  nothing  I  wouldn’t  do  for  you,”  he  stam¬ 
mered. 

“  I  want  you,”  continued  Miss  Meredith,  with  a  most 
vindictive  look  on  her  face,  “  to  find  out  for  me  who 
wrote  a  hook  review  in  to-day’s  Mirror ,  and  to — to — 
oh,  to  thrash  him.” 

“  All  right,”  said  the  captain,  rising  and  looking  for 
his  hat. 

“  Wait  a  minute,”  said  Nell,  glancing  at  him  ad¬ 
miringly.  “  The  hook  is  called  4  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,’ 
and  it  is  written  hy — hy  a  friend  of  mine.  In  to-day’s 
Mirror  it  is  called  the  most  horrid  names,  sickly  sen¬ 
timental,  not  even  grammatical,  and  all  that.” 

“  The  cads  !  ”  cried  Greybrooke. 

“But  the  horribly  mean,  wicked  thing  about  it,” 
continued  Nell,  becoming  more  and  more  indignant  as 
she  told  her  story,  “  is  that  not  two  months  ago  there 
was  a  review  of  the  book  in  the  same  paper,  which 
said  it  was  the  most  pathetic  and  thoughtful  and  clever 
tale  that  had  ever  been  published  by  an  anonymous 
author !  ” 

“  It’s  the  lowest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,”  said  Grey¬ 
brooke,  “  but  these  newspaper  men  are  all  the 
same.” 

“No,  they’re  hot,”  said  Nell  (Rickard  Abinger, 
Esq.’s,  only  visible  means  of  sustenance  was  the 
press),  “but  they  are  dreadfully  mean,  contemptible 
creatures  on  the  Mirror — just  reporters,  you  know.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


65 


Greybrooke  nodded,  though  he  knew  nothing  about 

it. 

“The  first  review,”  Nell  continued,  “appeared  on 
the  third  of  October,  and  I  want  you  to  show  them 
both  to  the  editor,  and  insist  upon  knowing  the  name 
of  the  writer.  After  that  find  the  wretch  out, 
and - ” 

“  And  lick  him,”  said  the  captain. 

His  face  frightened  Nell. 

“  You  won’t  hit  him  very  hard  ?”  she  asked,  appre¬ 
hensively  adding  as  an  afterthought,  “  Perhaps  he  is 
stronger  than  you.” 

Greybrooke  felt  himself  in  an  unfortunate  position. 
He  could  not  boast  before  Nell,  but  he  wished  very 
keenly  that  Will  was  there  to  boast  for  him.  Most  of 
us  have  experienced  the  sensation. 

Nell  having  undertaken  to  keep  Will  employed  un¬ 
til  the  captain’s  return,  Greybrooke  set  off  for  the 
Mirror  office  with  a  look  of  determination  on  his 
face.  He  went  into  two  shops,  the  one  a  news-shop, 
where  he  bought  a  copy  of  the  paper.  In  the  other 
he  asked  for  a  thick  stick,  having  remembered  that 
the  elegant  cane  he  carried  was  better  fitted  for  swing¬ 
ing  in  the  air  than  for  breaking  a  newspaper  man’s 
head.  He  tried  the  stick  on  a  paling.  Greybrooke 
felt  certain  that  Miss  “Meredith  was  the  novelist. 
That  was  why  he  selected  so  thick  a  weapon. 

He  marched  into  the  advertising  office,  and.  de¬ 
manded  to  see  the  editor  of  the  Mirror . 

5 


66 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“’Stairs,”  said  a  clerk,  with  liis  head  in  a  ledger. 
He  meant  upstairs,  and  the  squire  of  dames  took  his 
advice.  After  wandering  for  some  time  in  a  labyrinth 
of  dark  passages,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  day  com¬ 
posing-room,  in  which  half  a  dozen  silent  figures  were 
bending  over  their  cases. 

“I  want  the  editor,”  said  Greybrooke,  somewhat 
startled  by  the  sound  his  voice  made  in  the  great 
room. 

“’Stairs,”  said  one  of  the  figures,  meaning  down¬ 
stairs. 

Greybrooke,  remembering  who  had  sent  him  here, 
did  not  lose  heart.  He  knocked  at  several  doors,  and 
then  pushed  them  open.  All  the  rooms  were  empty. 
Then  he  heard  a  voice  saying : 

“  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  want  ?  ” 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  the  speaker,  and  he  had  been 
peering  at  the  intruder  for  some  time  through  a  grat¬ 
ing  in  his  door.  He  would  not  have  spoken  at  all,  but 
he  wanted  to  go  into  the  composing-room,  and  Grey¬ 
brooke  was  in  the  passage  that  led  to  it. 

“  I  don’t  see  you,”  said  the  captain ;  “  I  want  the 
editor.” 

“I  am  the  editor,”  said  the  voice,  “but  I  can  see  no 
one  at  present  except  on  business.” 

“  I  am  here  on  business,”  said  Greybrooke.  “  I 
want  to  thrash  one  of  your  staff.” 

“  All  the  members  of  my  literary  staff  are  engaged 


WHEN  A  MAN  \s  SINGLE.  67 

at  present,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  in  a  pleasant  voice  ; 
“  which  one  do  you  want  ?  ” 

“  I  want  the  low  cad  who  wrote  a  review  of  a  book 
called  ‘  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ’  in  to-day’s  paper.” 

“  Oh  !  ”  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

“  I  demand  his  name,”  cried  Greybrooke. 

The  editor  made  no  answer.  He  had  other  things 
to  do  than  to  quarrel  with  school-boys.  As  he  could  not 
get  out  he  began  a  leaderette.  The  visitor,  however, 
had  discovered  the  editorial  door  now,  and  was  shak¬ 
ing  it  violently. 

“  Why  don’t  you  answer  me  ?  ”  he  cried. 

Mr.  Licquorish  thought  for  a  moment  of  calling 
down  the  speaking-tube  which  communicated  with  the 
advertisement  office,  for  a  clerk'  to  come  and  take  this 
youth  away,  but,  after  all,  he  was  good-natured.  He 
finished  a  sentence,  and  then  opened  the  door.  The  cap¬ 
tain  strode  in,  but  refused  a  chair. 

“  Are  you  the  author  of  the  book  ?  ”  the  editor  asked. 

“  No,”  said  Greybrooke,  “  but  I  am  her  friend,  and  I 
am  here  to  thrash - ” 

Mr.  Licquorish  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  flow  of 
the  captain’s  indignation.  He  could  never  understand 
why  the  public  got  so  excited  over  these  little  mat¬ 
ters. 

“  She  is  a  Silchester  lady?”  he  asked. 

Greybrooke  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this.  He 
was  not  sure  whether  Nell  wanted  the  authorship 
revealed. 


68 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,”  he  said, 
“  I  want  the  name  of  the  writer  who  has  libeled  her.” 

“  On  the  press,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  repeating  some 
phrases  which  he  kept  for  such  an  occasion  as  the 
present,  “  we  have  a  duty  to  the  public  to  perform. 
When  hooks  are  sent  us  for  review  we  never  allow 
prejudice  or  private  considerations  to  warp  our  judg¬ 
ment.  The  Mirror  has  in  consequence  a  reputation 
for  honesty  that  some  papers  do  not  possess.  Now  I 
distinctly  remember  that  this  book,  ‘  The  Yale  of 
Tears  ’ - ” 

“  ‘The  Scorn  of  Scorns.’  ” 

“  I  mean  ‘  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,’  was  carefully  con¬ 
sidered  by  the  expert  to  whom  it  was  given  for  review. 
Being  honestly  of  opinion  that  the  treatise - ” 

“  It  is  a  novel.” 

“  That  the  novel  is  worthless,  we  had  to  say  so.  Had 
it  been  clever,  we  should - ” 

Mr.  Licquorish  paused,  reading  in  the  other’s  face 
that  there  was  something  wrong.  Greybrooke  had  con¬ 
cluded  that  the  editor  had  forgotten  about  the  first 
review. 

“  Can  you  show  me  a  copy  of  the  Mirror ,”  the 
captain  asked,  “  for  October  third  ?  ” 

Mr.  Licquorish  turned  to  the  file,  and  Greybrooke 
looked  over  his  shoulder. 

“  There  it  is  !  ”  cried  the  captain,  indignantly. 

They  read  the  original  notice  together.  It  said 
that,  if  “  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ”  was  written  by  a  new 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


69 


writer,  his  next  story  would  be  looked  for  with  great 
interest.  It  “  could  not  refrain  from  quoting  the 
following  exquisitely  tender  passage.”  It  found  the 
earlier  pages  “  as  refreshing  as  a  spring  morning,” 
and  the  closing  chapters  were  a  triumph  of  “  the  art 
that  conceals  art.” 

“  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that?”  asked  Grey- 
brooke,  fiercely. 

“  A  mistake,”  said  the  editor,  blandly.  “  Such  things 
do  happen  occasionally.” 

“  You  shall  make  reparation  for  it !  ” 

“  Hum,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

“  The  insult,”  cried  Greyhrooke,  “  must  have  been 
intentional.” 

“No.  I  fancy  the  authoress  must  he  to  blame  for 
this.  Hid  she  send  a  copy  of  the  work  to  us  ?  ” 

“  I  should  think  it  very  unlikely,”  said  Greyhrooke, 
fuming. 

“  Not  at  all,”  said  the  editor,  “  especially  if  she  is  a 
Silchester  lady.” 

“  What  would  make  her  do  that  ?  ” 

“  It  generally  comes  about  in  this  way.  The  pub¬ 
lishers  send  a  copy  of  the  book  to  a  newspaper,  and 
owing  to  pressure  on  the  paper’s  space  no  notice  ap¬ 
pears  for  some  time.  The  author,  who  looks  for  it 
daily,  thinks  that  the  publishers  have  neglected  their 
duty,  and  sends  a  copy  to  the  office  himself.  The 
editor,  forgetful  that  he  has  had  a  notice  of  the  book 
lying  ready  for  printing  for  months,  gives  the  second 


70 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


copy  to  another  reviewer.  By  and  by  the  first  review 
appears,  but  owing  to  an  oversight  the  editor  does  not 
take  note  of  it,  and  after  a  time,  unless  his  attention 
is  called  to  the  matter,  the  second  review  appears  also. 
Probably  that  is  the  explanation  in  this  case.” 

“But  such  carelessness  on  a  respectable  paper  is 
incomprehensible,”  said  the  captain. 

The  editor  was  looking  up  his  books  to  see  if  they 
shed  any  light  on  the  affair,  but  lie  answered  : 

“On  the  contrary,  it  is  an  experience  known  to 
most  newspapers.  Ah,  I  have  it !  ” 

Mr.  Licquorish  read  out,  “ 4  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,’ 
received  September  1st,  reviewed  October  3d.”  Sev¬ 
eral  pages  farther  on  he  discovered,  44  4  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns,’  received  September  24th,  reviewed  December 
19th.” 

“You  will  find,”  he  said,  “that  this  explains  it.” 

44 1  don’t  consider  the  explanation  satisfactory,”  re¬ 
plied  the  captain,  44  and  I  insist,  first,  upon  an  apology 
in  the  paper,  and,  second,  on  getting  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  the  second  review.” 

“I  am  busy  this  morning,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish, 
opening  his  door,  44  and  what  you  ask  is  absurd.  If 
the  authoress  can  give  me  her  word  that  she  did  not 
send  the  book  and  so  bring  this  upon  herself,  we  shall 
insert  a  word  on  the  subject,  but  not  otherwise.  Good¬ 
morning.” 

44  Give  me  the  writer’s  name,”  cried  the  captain. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  71 

“We  make  a  point  of  never  giving*  names  in  that 
way,”  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

•  “You  have  not  heard  the  last  of  this,”  Mr.  Grey- 
brooke  said  from  the  doorway.  “  I  shall  make  it  my 
duty  to  ferret  out  the  coward’s  name,  and - ” 

“  Good-morning,”  Mr.  Licquorish  repeated. 

The  captain  went  thumping  down  the  stairs,  and, 
meeting  a  printer’s  devil  at  the  bottom,  cuffed  him 
soundly  because  he  was  part  of  the  Mirror. 

To  his  surprise,  Miss  Meredith’s  first  remark  when 
he  returned  was : 

“  Oh,  I  hope  you  didn’t  see  him  !  ” 

She  looked  at  Greybrooke’s  face,  fearing  it  might  be 
stained  with  blood,  and  when  he  told  her  the  result  of 
his  inquiries  she  seemed  pleased  rather  than  otherwise. 
Nell  was  soft-hearted  after  all,  and  she  knew  how  that 
second  copy  of  the  novel  had  reached  the  Mirror  office. 

“I  shall  find  the  fellow  out,  though,”  said  Grey- 
brooke,  grasping  his  cudgel  firmly. 

“  Why,  you  are  as  vindictive  as  if  you  had  written 
the  book  yourself,”  said  Nell. 

Greybrooke  murmured,  blushing  the  while,  that 
an  insult  to  her  hurt  him  more  than  one  offered  to 
himself.  Nell  opened  the  eyes  of  astonishment. 

“You  don’t  think  I  wrote  the  book?”  she  asked ; 
then  seeing  that  it  was  so  from  his  face,  added,  “  Oh, 
no,  I’m  not  clever  enough.  It  was  written  by — by  a 
friend  of  mine.” 

Nell  deserves  credit  for  not  telling  Greybrooke  who 


72 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


the  friend  was,  for  that  was  a  secret.  But  there  was 
reason  to  believe  that  she  had  already  divulged  it  to 
twelve  persons  (all  in  the  strictest  confidence).  When 
the  captain  returned  she  was  explaining  all  about  it 
by  letter  to  Richard  Abinger,  Esq.  Possibly  that 
was  why  Greybrooke  thought  she  was  not  nearly  so 
nice  to  him  now  as  she  had  been  an  hour  before. 

Will  was  unusually  quiet  when  he  and  Greybrooke 
yaid  adieu  to  the  whole  family  of  Merediths.  He  was 
burning  to  know  where  the  captain  had  been,  and 
/ilso  what  Nell  called  him  back  to  say  in  such  a  low 
tone.  What  she  said  was : 

“Don’t  say  anything  about  going  to  the  Mirror 
office,  Mr.  Greybrooke,  to  Miss  Abinger.” 

The  captain  turned  round  to  lift  his  hat,  and  at  the 
same  time  expressed  involuntarily  a  wish  that  Nell 
could  see  him  punishing  loose  bowling. 

Mrs.  Meredith  beamed  to  him. 

“  There  is  something  very  nice,”  she  said  to  Nell, 
v  about  a  polite  young  man.” 

“Yes,”  murmured  her  daughter,  “and  even  if  he 
isn’t  polite.” 


CHAPTER  V. 


ROB  MARCHES  TO  HIS  FATE. 

Ov  the  morning  before  Christmas  a  murder  was 
committed  in  Silchester,  and  in  murders  there  is  “  lin¬ 
eage.”  In  the  Mirror  office  the  diary  for  the  day  was 
quickly  altered.  Kirker  set  off  cheerfully  for  the 
scene  of  the  crime,  leaving  the  banquet  in  the  Henry 
Institute  to  Tomlinson,  who  passed  on  his  dinner  at 
Dome  Castle  to  Rob,  whose  church  decorations  were 
taken  up  by  John  Milton. 

Christmas  Eve  was  coming  on  in  snow  when  Rob 

t* 

and  Walsh,  of  the  Argus ,  set  out  for  Dome  Castle. 
Rob  disliked  doing  dinners  at  any  time,  partly  because 
he  had  not  a  dress  suit.  The  dinner  was  an  annual 
one  given  by  Will’s  father  to  his  tenants,  and  reporters 
were  asked  because  the  colonel  made  a  speech.  His 
neighbors,  when  they  did  likewise,  sent  reports  of 
their  own  speeches  (which  they  seemed  to  like)  to  the 
papers ;  and  some  of  them,  having  called  themselves 
eloquent  and  justly  popular,  scored  the  compliments 
out,  yet  in  such  a  way  that  the  editor  would  still  be 
able  to  read  them,  and  print  them  if  he  thought  fit. 
Rob  did  not  look  forward  to  Colonel  Abinger’s  recep- 


74 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


tion  of  him,  for  they  had  met  some  months  before,  and 
called  each  other  names. 

It  was  one  day  soon  after  Rob  reached  Silchester. 
He  had  gone  a-fishing  in  the  Dome  and  climbed  un¬ 
consciously  into  preserved  waters.  As  his  creel  grew 
heavier  his  back  straightened ;  not  until  he  returned 
home  did  the  scenery  impress  him.  He  had  just  struck 
a  fine  fish,  when  a  soldierly  looking  man  at  the  top  of 
the  steep  bank  caught  sight  of  him. 

“  Hie,  you  sir !  ”  shouted  the  onlooker.  Whirr 
went  the  line — there  is  no  music  like  it.  Rob  was 
knee-deep  in  water.  “You  fellow!”  cried  the  other, 
brandishing  his  cane,  “  are  you  aware  that  this  water 
is  preserved?”  Rob  had  no  time  for  talk.  The 
colonel  sought  to  attract  his  attention  by  flinging  a 
pebble.  “  Don’t  do  that !  ”  cried  Rob,  fiercely. 

Away  went  the  fish.  Away  went  Rob  after  it. 
Colonel  Abinger’s  face  was  red  as  he  clambered  down 
the  bank.  “  I  shall  prosecute  you,”  he  shouted.  “  He 
is  gone  to  the  bottom ;  fling  in  a  stone !  ”  cried  Rob. 
Just  then  the  fish  showed  its  yellow  belly  and  darted 
off  again.  Rob  let  out  more  line.  “  No,  no,”  shouted 
the  colonel,  who  fished  himself,  “  you  lose  him  if  he 
gets  to  the  other  side ;  strike,  man,  strike  !  ”  The  line 
tightened,  the  rod  bent — a  glorious  sight !  “  Force 

him  up  stream,”  cried  the  colonel,  rolling  over  bowl¬ 
ders  to  assist.  “  Now,  you  have  him.  Bring  him 
in.  Where  is  your  landing-net?”  “I  haven’t  one,” 
pried  Rob ;  “  take  him  in  your  hands.”  The  colonel 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


75 


stooped  to  grasp  the  fish  and  missed  it.  “  Bungler !  ” 
screamed  Rob.  This  was  too  much.  “  Give  me  your 
name  and  address,”  said  Colonel  Abinger,  rising  to 
his  feet ;  “  you  are  a  poacher.”  Rob  paid  no  atten¬ 
tion.  There  was  a  struggle.  Rob  did  not  realize  that 
he  had  pushed  his  assailant  over  a  rock  until  the  fish 
was  landed.  Then  he  apologized,  offered  all  his  fish 
in  lieu  of  his  name  and  address,  retired  coolly  so  long 
as  the  furious  soldier  was  in  sight,  and  as  soon  as  he 
turned  a  corner  disappeared  rapidly.  He  could  not 
feel  that  this  was  the  best  introduction  to  the  man  with 
whom  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  dine. 

The  reporter  whose  long  strides  made  Walsh  trot 
as  they  hurried  to  Dome  Castle  was  not  quite  the  Rob 
of  three  months  before.  How  he  knew  how  a  third- 
rate  newspaper  is  conducted,  and  the  capacity  for 
wonder  had  gone  from  him.  He  was  in  danger  of 
thinking  that  the  journalist’s  art  is  to  write  readably, 
authoritatively,  and  always  in  three  paragraphs  on  a 
subject  he  knows  nothing  about.  Rob  had  written 
many  leaders,  and  followed  readers  through  the  streets 
wondering  if  they  liked  them.  Once  he  had  gone  with 
three  others  to  report  a  bishop’s  sermon.  A.  curate 
appeared  instead,  and  when  the  reporters  saw  him 
they  shut  their  note-books  and  marched  blandly  out 
of  the  cathedral.  A  public  speaker  had  tried  to  bribe 
Rob  with  two  half-crowns,  and  it  is  still  told  in 
Silcliester  how  the  wrathful  Scotsman  tore  his  bene¬ 
factor  out  of  the  carriage  he  had  just  stepped  into,  and, 


76 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


lifting  him  on  high,  looked  around  to  consider  against 
which  stone  wall  he  should  hurl  him.  He  had  dis¬ 
covered  that  on  the  first  of  the  month  Mr.  Licquorish 
could  not  help  respecting  his  staff,  because  on  that  day 
he  paid  them.  Socially  Rob  had  acquired  little.  Pro- 
theroe  had  introduced  him  to  a  pleasant  family,  but  he 
had  sat  silent  in  a  corner,  and  they  told  the  sub-editor 
not  to  bring  him  back.  Most  of  the  literary  staff  were 
youths  trying  to  be  Bohemians,  who  liked  to  feel  them¬ 
selves  sinking,  and  they  never  scaled  the  reserve  which 
walled  Rob  round.  lie  had  taken  a  sitting,  however, 
in  the  Scotch  church,  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  min¬ 
ister,  who  said,  “  But  I  thought  you  were  a  reporter?” 
as  if  there  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere. 

Walsh  could  tell  Rob  little  of  Colonel  Abinger.  He 
was  a  brave  soldier,  and  for  many  years  had  been  a 

i 

widower.  His  elder  son  was  a  barrister  in  London, 
whom  Silchester  had  almost  forgotten,  and  Walsh 
fancied  there  was  some  story  about  the  daughter’s 
being  engaged  to  a  baronet.  There  was  also  a  boy, 
who  had  the  other  day  brought  the  captain  of  his 
school  to  a  Silchester  football  ground  to  show  the  club 
how  to  take  a  drop-kick. 

“  Does  the  colonel  fish  ?  ”  asked  Rob,  who  would, 
however,  have  preferred  to  know  if  the  colonel  had  a 
good  memory  for  faces. 

“He  is  a  famous  angler,”  said  Walsh;  “indeed,  I 
have  been  told  that  his  bursts  of  passion  are  over  in 
five  minutes,  except  when  he  catches  a  poacher.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  77 

Rob  winced,  for  Walsh  did  not  know  of  the  fishing 
episode. 

“  His  temper,”  continued  W alsh,  “  is  such  that  his 
male  servants  are  said  never  to  know  whether  he  will 
give  them  a  shilling  or  a  whirl  of  his  cane — until  they 
get  it.  The  gardener  takes  a  look  at  him  from  behind 
a  tree  before  venturing  to  address  him.  I  suppose  his 
poverty  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  for  the  estate  is  mort¬ 
gaged  heavily,  and  he  has  had  to  cut  down  trees,  and 
even  to  sell  his  horses.  The  tenants  seem  to  like 
him,  though,  and  if  they  dared  they  would  tell  him  not 
to  think  himself  bound  to  give  them  this  annual  din¬ 
ner.  There  are  numberless  stories  of  his  fierce  temper, 
and  as  many  of  his  extravagant  kindness.  According 
to  his  servants,  he  once  emptied  his  pocket  to  a  beggar 
at  a  railway  station,  and  then  discovered  that  he  had 
no  money  for  his  own  ticket.  As  for  the  ne’er-do- 
weels,  their  importuning  makes  him  rage,  but  they 
know  he  will  fling  something  in  the  end  if  they  expose 
their  rags  sufficiently. 

“  So,”  said  Rob,  who  did  not  want  to  like  the  col¬ 
onel,  “  he  would  not  trouble  about  them  if  they  kept 
their  misery  to  themselves.  That  kind  of  man  is  more 
likely  to  be  a  philanthropist  in  your  country  than  in 
mine.” 

“Keep  that  for  a  Burns  dinner,”  suggested  Walsh. 

Rob  heard  now  how  Tomlinson  came  to  be  nicknamed 
Umbrage. 


78 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 


“  He  was  sub-editing  one  night,”  W alsh  explained, 
“  during  the  time  of  an  African  war,  and  things  were 
going  so  smoothly  that  he  and  Penny  were  chatting 
amicably  together  about  the  advantage  of  having  a 
few  Latin  phrases  in  a  leader,  such  as  dolce  far  niente , 
or  cela  va  sans  dire - ” 

“I  can  believe  that,”  said  Hob,  “of  Penny  cer¬ 
tainly.” 

“Well,  in  the  middle  of  the  discussion  an  impor¬ 
tant  war  telegram  arrived,  to  the  not  unnatural  dis¬ 
gust  of  both.  As  is  often  the  case,  the  message  was 
misspelled,  and  barely  decipherable,  and  one  part  of  it 
puzzled  Tomlinson  a  gbod  deal.  It  read :  ‘  Zulus  have 
taken  Umbrage  ;  English  forces  had  to  retreat.’  Tom¬ 
linson  searched  the  map  in  vain  for  Umbrage,  which 
the  Zulus  had  taken ;  and  Penny,  being  in  a  hurry, 
was  sure  it  was  a  fortress.  So  they  risked  it,  and 
next  morning  the  chief  lines  in  the  Mirror  contents 
bill  were :  4 Latest  News  of  the  War;  Capture  of 
Umbrage  by  the  Zulus.  ’  ” 

By  this  time  the  reporters  had  passed  into  the 
grounds  of  the  castle,  and,  being  late,  were  hurry¬ 
ing  up  the  grand  avenue.  It  was  the  hour  and  the 
season  when  night  comes  on  so  sharply  that  its 
shadow  may  be  seen  trailing  the  earth  as  a  breeze 
runs  along  a  field  of  corn.  Heard  from  a  height  the 
roar  of  the  Home  among  rocks  might  have  been  the 
rustle  of  the  surrounding  trees  in  June ;  so  men  and 
women  who  grow  old  together  sometimes  lend  each 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


79 


other  a  voice.  Walsh,  seeing  his  opportunity  in 
Rob’s  silence,  began  to  speak  of  himself.  He  told 
how  his  first  press-work  had  been  a  series  of  letters 
he  had  written  when  at  school,  and  contributed  to  a 
local  paper  under  the  signatures  of  “Paterfamilias” 
and  “  An  Indignant  Ratepayer.”  Rob  scarcely  heard. 
The  bare,  romantic  scenery  impressed  him,  and  the 
snow  in  his  face  was  like  a  whiff  of  Thrums.  He 
was  dreaming,  but  not  of  the  reception  he  might  get 
at  the  castle,  when  the  clatter  of  horses  awoke  him. 

“  There  is  a  machine  behind  us,”  he  said,  though 
he  would  have  written  trap. 

A  brougham  lumbered  into  sight.  As  its  lamps 
flashed  on  the  pedestrians,  the  coachman  jerked  his 
horses  to  the  side,  and  Rob  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
carriage’s  occupant.  The  brougham  stopped. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  the  traveler,  opening 
his  window,  and  addressing  Rob,  “but  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  I  mistook  you  for  Colonel  Abinger.” 

“We  are  on  our  way  to  the  castle,”  said  Walsh, 
stepping  forward. 

“  Ah,  then,”  said  the  stranger,  “  perhaps  you  will 
give  me  your  company  for  the  short  distance  we  have 
still  to  go  ?  ” 

There  was  a  fine  courtesy  in  his  manner  that  made 
the  reporters  feel  their  own  deficiencies,  yet  Rob 
thought  the  stranger  repented  his  offer  as  soon  as  it 
was  made.  Walsh  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  but 
Rob  said : 


80 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“We  are  going  to  Dome  Castle  as  reporters.” 

“  Oh !  ”  said  the  stranger.  Then  he  bowed  gra¬ 
ciously,  and  pulled  up  the  window.  The  carriage 
rumbled  on,  leaving  the  reporters  looking  at  each 
other.  Rob  laughed.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  advantage  a  handsome  man  has  over  a  plain  one 
had  struck  him.  He  had  only  once  seen  such  a  face 
before,  and  that  was  in  marble  in  the  Silchester  Art 
Museum.  This  man  looked  thirty  years  of  age,  but 
there  was  not  a  line  on  his  broad,  white  brow.  The 
face  was  magnificently  classic,  from  the  strong  Ro¬ 
man  nose  to  the  firm  chin.  The  eyes,  too  beautiful 
almost  for  his  sex,  were  brown  and  wistful,  of  the 
kind  that  droop  in  disappointment  oftener  than  they 
blaze  with  anger.  All  the  hair  on  his  face  was  a 
heavy  drooping  mustache  that  almost  hid  his  mouth. 

Walsh  shook  his  fist  at  this  insult  to  the  Press. 

“  It  is  the  baronet  I  spoke  of  to  you,”  he  said.  “  I 
forget  who  he  is ;  indeed,  I  rather  think  he  traveled 
incognito  when  he  was  here  last.  I  don’t  under¬ 
stand  what  he  is  doing  here.” 

“  Why,  I  should  say  this  is  just  the  place  where  he 
would  be  if  he  is  to  marry  Miss  Abinger.” 

“That  was  an  old  story,”  said  Walsh.  “If  there 
ever  was  an  engagement  it  was  broken  off.  Besides, 
if  he  had  been  expected  we  should  have  known  of  it 
at  the  Argus” 

Walsh  was  right.  Sir  Clement  Dowton  was  not 
expected  at  Dome  Castle,  and,  like  Rob,  he  was  not 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


81 


even  certain  that  he  would  he  welcome.  As  he  drew 
near  his  destination  his  hands  fidgeted  with  the  win¬ 
dow  strap,  yet  there  was  an  unaccountable  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  Had  there  been  any  onlookers  they  would 
have  been  surprised  to  see  that  all  at  once  the  baronet’s 
sense  of  humor  seemed  to  overcome  his  fears,  and, 
instead  of  quaking,  he  laughed  heartily.  Sir  Clement 
was  evidently  one  of  the  men  who  carry  their  joke 
about  with  them. 

This  unexpected  guest  did  Rob  one  good  turn. 
When  the  colonel  saw  Sir  Clement  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment  as  if  not  certain  how  to  greet  him.  Then  the 
baronet,  who  was  effusive,  murmured  that  he  had 
something  to  say  to  him,  and  Colonel  Abinger’s  face 
cleared.  He  did  Sir  Clement  the  unusual  honor  of 
accompanying  him  upstairs  himself,  and  so  Rob  got 
the  seat  assigned  to  him  at  the  dinner-table  without 
having  to  meet  his  host  in  the  face.  The  butler 
marched  him  down  a  long  table  with  a  twist  in  it,  and 
placed  him  under  arrest,  as  it  were,  in  a  chair  from 
which  he  saw  only  a  few  of  the  company.  The  dinner 
had  already  begun,  but  the  first  thing  he  realized  as 
he  took  his  seat  was  that  there  was  a  lady  on  each 
side  of  him,  and  a  table-napkin  in  front.  He  was  not 
sure  if  he  was  expected  to  address  the  ladies,  and  he 
was  still  less  certain  about  the  table-napkin.  Of  such 
things  he  had  read,  and  he  had  even  tried  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  for  them.  Rob  looked  nervously  at  the  napkin, 

and  then  took  a  covert  glance  along  the  table.  There 

'  6 


82 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


was  not  a  napkin  in  sight  except  one  which  a  farmer 
had  tied  round  his  neck.  Rob’s  fingers  wanted  to 
leave  the  napkin  alone,  but  by  an  effort  he  forced  them 
toward  it.  All  this  time  his  face  was  a  blank,  but  the 
internal  struggle  was  sharp.  He  took  hold  of  the 
napkin,  however,  and  spread  it  on  his  knees.  It  fell 
to  the  floor  immedately  afterward,  but  he  disregarded 
that.  It  was  no  longer  staring  at  him  from  the  table, 
and  with  a  heavy  sigh  of  relief  he  began  to  feel  more 
at  ease.  There  is  nothing  like  burying  our  bogies. 

His  position  prevented  Rob’s  seeing  either  the  col¬ 
onel  at  the  head  of  the  table  or  Miss  Abinger  at  the 
foot  of  it,  and  even  Walsh  was  hidden  from  view.  But 
his  right-hand  neighbor  was  a  local  doctor’s  wife, 
whom  the  colonel  had  wanted  to  honor  without  honor¬ 
ing  too  much,  and  she  gave  him  some  information. 
Rob  was  relieved  to  hear  her  address  him,  and  she  was 
interested  in  a  tame  Scotsman. 

“  I  was  once  in  the  far  north  myself,”  she  said,  “  as 
far  as  Orkney.  We  were  nearly  drowned  in  crossing 
that  dreadful  sea  between  it  and  the  mainland.  The 
Solway  Firth,  is  it  ?  ” 

Rob  thought  for  a  moment  of  explaining  what  sea  it 
is,  and  then  he  thought,  why  should  he  ? 

“  Yes,  the  Solway  Firth,”  he  said. 

“  It  was  rather  an  undertaking,”  she  pursued,  “  but 
though  we  were  among  the  mountains  for  days,  we 
never  encountered  any  of  those  robber  chieftains  one 
reads  about — caterans,  I  think,  you  call  them  ?  ” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


83 


“You  were  very  lucky,”  said  Rob. 

“Were  we  not?  But,  you  know,  we  took  such 
precautions.  There  was  quite  a  party  of  us,  includ¬ 
ing  my  father,  who  has  traveled  a  great  deal,  and 
all  the  gentlemen  wore  kilts.  My  father  said  it  was 
always  prudent  to  do  in  Rome  as  the  Romans  do.” 

“I  have  no  doubt,”  said  Rob,  “that  in  that  way 
you  escaped  the  caterans.  They  are  very  open  to 
flattery.” 

“  So  my  father  said.  We  also  found  that  we  could 
make  ourselves  understood  by  saying  ‘  whatever,’  and 
remembering  to  call  the  men  ‘she’  and  the  women 
‘  he.’  What  a  funny  custom  that  is  !  ” 

“  We  can’t  get  out  of  it,”  said  Rob. 

“There  is  one  thing,”  the  lady  continued,  “that 
you  can  tell  me.  I  have  been  told  that  in  winter  the 
wild  boars  take  refuge  in  the  streets  of  Inverness, 
and  that  there  are  sometimes  very  exciting  hunts 
after  them  ?  ” 

“  That  is  only  when  they  run  away  with  children,” 
Rob  explained.  “Then  the  natives  go  out  in  large 
bodies  and  shoot  them  with  claymores.  It  is  a  most 
exciting  scene.” 

When  the  doctor’s  wife  learned  that  this  was  Rob’s 
first  visit  to  the  castle,  she  told  him  at  once  that  she 
was  there  frequently.  It  escaped  his  notice  that  she 
paused  here  and  awaited  the  effect.  She  was  not 
given  to  pausing. 

* 

“  My  husband,”  she  said,  “  attended  on  Lady  Louisa 


84 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


during  her  last  illness — quite  ten  years  ago.  I 
was  married  very  young,”  she  added,  hurriedly. 

Rob  was  very  nearly  saying  he  saw  that.  The 
words  were  in  his  mouth,  when  he  hesitated,  reflect¬ 
ing  that  it  was  not  worth  while.  This  is  only 
noticeable  as  showing  that  he  missed  his  first  com¬ 
pliment. 

“  Lady  Louisa  ?  ”  he  repeated  instead. 

“  Oh,  yes,  the  colonel  married  one  of  Lord  Tarling- 
ton’s  daughters.  There  were  seven  of  them,  you 
know,  and  no  sons,  and  when  the  youngest  was  born 
it  was  said  that  a  friend  of  his  lordship  sent  him  a 
copy  of  Wordsworth,  with  the  page  turned  down  at 
the  poem,  ‘  W e  are  Seven  ’ — a  lady  friend,  I  believe.” 

“Is  Miss  Abinger  like  the  colonel?”  asked  Rob, 
who  had  heard  it  said  that  she  was  beautiful,  and 
could  not  help  taking  an  interest  in  her  in  consequence. 

“You  have  not  seen  Miss  Abinger?”  asked  the 
doctor’s  wife.  “  Ah,  you  came  late,  and  that  vulgar¬ 
looking  farmer  hides  her  altogether.  She  is  a  lovely 
girl,  but - ” 

Rob’s  companion  pursed  her  lips. 

“  She  is  so  cold  and  proud,”  she  added. 

“  As  proud  as  her  father  ?  ”  Rob  as^ked,  aghast. 

“  Oh,  the  colonel  is  humility  itself  beside  her. 
He  freezes  at  times,  but  she  never  thaws.” 

Rob  sighed  involuntarily.  He  was  not  aware  that 
his  acquaintances  spoke  in  a  similar  way  of  him.  His 
eyes  wandered  up  the  table  till  they  rested  of  their 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


85 


own  accord  on  a  pretty  girl  in  blue.  At  that  moment 
sire  was  telling  Greybrooke  that  he  could  call  her  Nell, 
because  “  Miss  ”  Meredith  sounded  like  a  reproach. 

The  reporter  looked  at  Nell  with  satisfaction,  and 
the  doctor’s  wife  followed  his  thoughts  so  accurately 
that,  before  she  could  check  herself,  she  said,  “Do 
you  think  so  ?  ” 

Then  Rob  started,  which  confused  both  of  them, 
and  for  the  remainder  of  the  dinner  the  loquacious 
lady  seemed  to  take  less  interest  in  him,  he  could  not 
understand  why.  Flung  upon  his  own  resources,  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  spoken  to  the  lady  on 
his  other  side.  Had  Rob  only  known  it,  she  felt  much 
more  uncomfortable  in  that  great  dining-room  than 
he  did.  No  one  was  speaking  to  her,  and  she  passed 
the  time  between  the  courses  breaking  her  bread  to 
pieces  and  eating  it  slowly,  crumb  by  crumb.  Rob 
thought  of  something  to  say  to  her,  but  when  he  tried 
the  words  over  in  his  own  mind  they  seemed  so  little 
worth  saying  that  he  had  to  think  again.  He  found 
himself  counting  the  crumbs,  and  then  it  struck  him 
that  he  might  ask  her  if  she  would  like  any  salt.  He 
did  so,  but  she  thought  he  asked  for  salt,  and  passed 
the  salt-cellar  to  him,  whereupon  Rob,  as  the  simplest 
way  to  get  out  of  it,  helped  himself  to  more  salt, 
though  he  did  not  need  it.  The  intercourse  thus 
auspiciously  begun  went  no  farther,  and  they  never 
met  again.  It  might  have  been  a  romance. 

The  colonel  had  not  quite  finished  his  speech,  which 


86 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


was  to  the  effect  that  so  long  as  his  tenants  looked  up 
to  him  as  some  one  superior  to  themselves  they  would 
find  him  an  indulgent  landlord,  when  the  tread  of  feet 
was  heard  outside,  and  then  the  music  of  the  waits. 
The  colonel  frowned  and  raised  his  voice,  but  his 
guests  caught  themselves  tittering,  and  read  their 
host’s  rage  in  his  darkening  face.  Forgetting  that 
the  waits  were  there  by  his  own  invitation,  he  signed 
to  James,  the  butler,  to  rush  out  and  mow  them  down. 
James  did  not  interpret  the  message  so,  but  for  the 
moment  it  was  what  his  master  meant. 

While  the  colonel  was  hesitating  whether  to  go  on, 
Rob  saw  Nell  nod  encouragingly  to  Greybrooke.  He 
left  his  seat,  and,  before  any  one  knew  what  he  was 
about,  had  flung  open  one  of  the  windows.  The  room 
filled  at  once  with  music,  and,  as  if  by  common  con¬ 
sent,  the  table  was  deserted.  Will  opened  the  remain¬ 
ing  windows,  and  the  waits,  who  had  been  singing  to 
shadows  on  the  white  blinds,  all  at  once  found  a 
crowded  audience.  Rob  hardly  realized  what  it  meant, 
for  he  had  never  heard  the  waits  before. 

It  was  a  scene  that  would  have  silenced  a  school¬ 
girl.  The  night  was  so  clear  that  beyond  the  lawn 
where  the  singers  were  grouped  the  brittle  trees 
showed  in  every  twig.  No  snow  was  falling,  and  so 
monotonous  was  the  break  of  the  river  that  the  ear 
would  only  have  noticed  it  had  it  stopped.  The  moon 
stood  overhead  like  a  frozen  round  of  snow. 

Looking  over  the  heads  of  those  who  had  gathered" 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


87 


at  one  of  the  windows,  Rob  saw  first  Will  Abinger 
and  then  the  form  of  a  girl  cross  to  the  singers. 
Some  one  followed  her  with  a  cloak.  From  the 
French  windows  steps  dropped  to  the  lawn.  A  lady 
beside  Rob  shivered  and  retired  to  the  fireside,  but 
Nell  whispered  to  Greybrooke  that  she  must  run 
after  Mary.  Several  others  followed  her  down  the 
steps. 

Rob,  looking  round  for  Walsh,  saw  him  in  conver¬ 
sation  with  the  colonel.  Probably  he  was  taking  down 
the  remainder  of  the  speech.  Then  a  lady’s  voice  said : 
“  Who  is  that  magnificent  young  man?” 

The  sentence  ended  “with  the  hob-nailed  boots,” 
and  the  reference  was  to  Rob,  but  he  only  caught  the 
first  words.  He  thought  the  baronet  was  spoken  of, 
and  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  not  appeared 
at  the  dinner-table.  As  Sir  Clement  entered  the 
room  at  that  moment  in  evening  dress,  making  most 
of  those  who  surrounded  him  look  mean  by  compari¬ 
son,  Rob  never  learned  who  the  magnificent  young 
man  was. 

Sir  Clement’s  entrance  was  something  of  a  sensation, 
and  Rob  saw  several  ladies  raise  their  eyebrows.  All 
seemed  to  know  him  by  name,  and  some  personally. 
The  baronet’s  nervousness  had  evidently  passed  away, 
for  he  bowed  and  smiled  to  every  one,  claiming  some 
burly  farmers  as  old  acquaintances,  though  he  had 
never  seen  them  before.  His  host  and  he  seemed 
already  on  the  most  cordial  terms,  but  the  colonel 


88 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


was  one  of  the  few  persons  in  the  room  who  was  not 
looking  for  Miss  Abinger.  At  last  Sir  Clement  asked 
for  her. 

“  I  believe,”  said  some  one  in  answer  to  the  colonel’s 
inquiring  glance  round  the  room,  “  that  Miss  Abinger 
is  speaking  with  the  waits.” 

“  Perhaps  I  shall  see  her,”  said  Dowton,  stepping  out 
at  one  of  the  windows. 

Colonel  Abinger  followed  him  to  the  window,  but 
no  farther,  and  at  that  moment  a  tall  figure  on  the 
snowy  lawn  crossed  his  line  of  vision.  It  was  Rob, 
who,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself,  had 
wandered  into  the  open.  His  back  was  toward  the 
colonel,  and  something  in  his  walk  recalled  to  that 
choleric  officer  the  angler  whom  he  had  encountered 
on  the  Home. 

“  That  is  the  man — I  was  sure  I  knew  the  face,”  said 
Colonel  Abinger.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper  to  himself, 
but  his  hands  closed  with  a  snap. 

Unconscious  of  all  this,  Rob  strolled  on  till  he 
found  a  path  that  took  him  round  the  castle.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  caught  sight  of  a  blue  dress,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  girl’s  voice  exclaimed:  “Oh,  I  am  afraid 
it  is  lost !  ” 

The  speaker  bent,  as  if  to  look  for  something  in  the 
sand,  now  Rob  blundered  up  to  her.  “  If  you  have  lost 
anything,”  he  said,  “  perhaps  I  can  find  it.” 

Rob  had  matches  in  his  pocket,  and  he  struck  one 
of  them.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  he  noticed  that  Nell 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


89 


was  not  alone.  Greybrooke  was  with  her,  and  he  was 
looking  foolish. 

“  Thank  yon  very  much,”  said  Nell  sweetly  ;  “  it  is 
a — a  bracelet.” 

Rob  went  down  on  his  knees  to  look  for  the  bracelet, 
but  it  surprised  him  a  little  that  Greybrooke  did  not 
follow  his  example.  If  he  had  looked  up,  he  would 

have  seen  that  the  captain  was  gazing  at  Nell  in  amaze¬ 
ment,, 

“I  am  afraid  it  is  lost,”  Nell  repeated,  “or  perhaps 
I  dropped  it  in  the  dining-room.” 

Greybrooke’s  wonder  was  now  lost  in  a  grin,  for 
Nell  had  lost  nothing,  unless  perhaps  for  the  moment 
her  sense  of  what  was  fit  and  proper.  The  captain 
had  followed  her  on  to  the  lawn,  and  persuaded  her 
to  come  and  look  down  upon  the  river  from  the  top 
of  the  cliff.  She  had  done  so,  she  told  herself,  because 
he  was  a  boy ;  but  he  had  wanted  her  to  do  it  because 
she  was  a  woman.  On  the  very  spot  where  Richard 
Abinger,  barrister-at-law,  had  said  something  to  her 
that  Nell  would  never  forget,  the  captain  had  presump¬ 
tuously  kissed  her  hand,  and  Nell  had  allowed  him, 
because  after  all  it  was  soon  over.  It  was  at  that  very 
moment  that  Rob  came  in  sight,  and  Nell  thought  she 
was  justified  in  deceiving  him.  Rob  would  have 
remained  a  long  time  on  the  snow  if  she  had  not  had  a 
heart. 

“  Yes,  I  believe  I  did  drop  it  in  the  dining-room,” 
said  Nell,  in  such  a  tone  of  conviction  that  Rob  rose  to 


90  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

his  feet.  His  knees  were  white  in  her  service,  and 
Nell  felt  that  she  liked  this  young  man. 

“  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr. — Mr. - * 

began  the  young  lady. 

“  My  name  is  Angus,”  said  Rob ;  “  I  am  a  reporter 
on  the  Silchester  Mirror” 

Greybrooke  started,  and  Nell  drew  back  'n  horror, 
but  the  next  second  she  was  smiling.  Rob  thought 
it  was  kindliness  that  made  her  do  it,  but  it  was 
really  a  smile  of  triumph.  She  felt  that  she  was  on 
the  point  of  making  a  discovery  at  last.  Greybrooke 
would  have  blurted  out  a  question,  but  Nell  stopped 
him. 

“  Get  me  a  wrap  of  some  kind,  Mr.  Greybrooke,”  she 
said,  with  such  sweet  imperiousness  that  the  captain 
went  without  a  word.  Half-way  he  stopped  to  call 
himself  a  fool,  for  he  had  remembered  all  at  once 
about  Raleigh  and  his  cloak,  and  seen  how  he  might 
have  adapted  that  incident  to  his  advantage  by  offer¬ 
ing  to  put  his  own  coat  round  Nell’s  shoulders. 

It  was  well  that  Greybrooke  did  not  look  back,  for 
he  would  have  seen  Miss  Meredith  take  Rob’s  arm — 
which  made  Rob  start — and  lead  him  in  the  direction 
in  which  Miss  Abinger  was  supposed  to  have  gone. 

“The  literary  life  must  be  delightful,”  said  artful 
Nell,  looking  up  into  her  companion’s  face. 

Rob  appreciated  the  flattery,  but  his  pride  made 
him  say  that  the  literary  life  was  not  the  re¬ 
porter’s. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


91 


“I  always  read  the  Mirror”  continued  Nell,  on 
whom  the  moon  was  having  a  bad  effect  to-night, 
“  and  often  I  wonder  who  writes  the  articles.  There 
was  a  book  review  in  it  a  few  days  ago  that  I — I  liked 
very  much.” 

“Do  you  remember  what  the  book  was?”  asked 
Rob,  jumping  into  the  pit. 

“Let  me  see,”  said  Nell,  putting  her  head  to  the 
side,  “  it  was — yes,  it  was  a  novel  called — called  ‘  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns.’  ” 

Rob’s  good  angel  was  very  near  him  at  that  mo¬ 
ment,  hut  not  near  enough  to  put  her  palm  over  his 
mouth. 

“  That  review  was  mine,”  said  Rob,  with  uncalled, 
for  satisfaction. 

“Was  it?”  cried  his  companion,  pulling  away  her 
arm  viciously. 

The  path  had  taken  them  to  the  top  of  the  pile  of 
rocks,  from  which  it  is  a  sheer  descent  of  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  Dome.  At  this  point  the  river  is  joined  by 
a  smaller  but  not  less  noisy  stream,  which  rushes  at  it 
at  right  angles.  Two  of  the  castle  walls  rise  up  here 
as  if  part  of  the  cliff,  and  though  the  wall  goes  round 
them,  they  seem  to  the  angler  looking  up  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Dome  to  he  part  of  the  rock. 
From  the  windows  that  look  to  the  west  and  north 
one  can  see  down  into  the  black  waters,  and  hear  the 
Ferret,  as  the  smaller  stream  is  called,  fling  itself  over 
jagged  boulders  into  the  Dome. 


92 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


The  ravine  coming  upon  him  suddenly  took  away 
Rob’s  breath,  and  he  hardly  felt  Nell  snatch  away 
her  arm.  She  stood  back,  undecided  what  to  do  for 
a  moment,  and  they  were  separated  by  a  few  yards. 
Then  Rob  heard  a  man’s  voice,  soft  and  low,  but 
passionate.  He  knew  it  to  be  Sir  Clement  Dowton’s, 
though  he  lost  the  words.  A  girl’s  voice  answered, 
however — a  voice  so  exquisitely  modulated,  so  clear 
and  pure,  that  Rob  trembled  with  delight  in  it.  This 
is  what  it  said : 

“No,  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  I  bear  you  no  ill-will, 
but  I  do  not  love  you.  Years  ago  I  made  an  idol 
and  worshipped  it,  because  I  knew  no  better ;  but  I 
am  a  foolish  girl  no  longer,  and  I  know  now  that  it 
was  a  thing  of  clay.” 

To  Rob’s  amazement  he  found  himself  murmuring 
these  words  even  before  they  were  spoken.  He 
seemed  to  know  them  so  well  that,  had  the  speaker 
missed  anything,  he  could  have  put  her  right.  It 
was  not  sympathy  that  worked  this  marvel.  He  had 
read  all  this  before,  or  something  very  like  it,  in 
“  The  Scorn  of  Scorns.” 

Nell,  too,  heard  the  voice,  but  did  not  catch  the 
words.  She  ran  forward,  and,  as  she  reached  Rob,  a 
tall  girl  in  white,  with  a  dark  hood  over  her  head, 
pushed  aside  a  bush  and  came  into  view. 

“  Mary,”  cried  Miss  Meredith,  “  this  gentleman  here 
is  the  person  who  wrote  that  in  the  Mirror .  Let  me 
introduce  you  to  him,  Mr.  Angus,  Miss - ”  and  then 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  93 

Kell  shrank  back  in  amazement,  as  she  saw  who  was 
with  her  friend. 

“  Sir  Clement  Dowton !  ”  she  exclaimed. 

Rob,  however,  did  not  hear  her,  nor  see  the 
baronet ;  for,  looking  up  with  a  guilty  feeling  at  his 
heart,  his  eyes  met  Mary  Abinger. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  ONE  WOMAN. 

Daybreak  on  the  following  morning  found  the  gas 
blazing  in  Rob’s  lodgings.  Rob  was  seated  in  an  arm¬ 
chair,  his  feet  on  the  cold  hearth.  “The  Scorn  of 
Scorns  ”  lay  on  the  mantelpiece  carefully  done  up  in 

t 

brown  paper,  lest  a  speck  of  dust  should  fall  on  it,  and 
he  had  been  staring  at  the  ribs  of  the  fireplace  for  the 
last  three  hours  without  seeing  them.  He  had  not 
thought  of  the  gas.  His  bed  was  unslept  on.  His  damp 
boots  had  dried  on  his  feet.  He  did  not  feel  cold.  All 
night  he  had  sat  there,  a  man  mesmerized.  For  the 
only  time  in  his  life  he  had  forgotten  to  wind  up  his 
watch. 

At  times  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
himself,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  face.  Then  a  change  of 
mood  came,  and  he  beat  the  fender  with  his  feet  till 
the  fire-irons  rattled.  Thinking  over  these  remarks 
brought  the  rapture  to  his  face : 

“  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus?” 

“  You  must  not  take  to  heart  what  Miss  Meredith 
said.” 

“  Please  don’t  say  any  more  about  it.  I  am  quite 
sure  you  gave  your  honest  opinion  about  my  book.” 

“  I  am  so  glad  you  think  this  like  Scotland,  because, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


95 


of  course,  that  is  the  highest  compliment  a  Scotsman 
can  pay.” 

“  Good-night,  Mr.  Angus.” 

That  was  all  she  had  said  to  him,  hut  the  more  Rob 
thought  over  her  remarks  the  more  he  liked  them.  It 
was  not  so  much  the  words  themselves  that  thrilled 
him  as  the  way  they  were  said.  Other  people  had 
asked,  “  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus  ?  ”  without  making 
an  impression,  but  her  greeting  was  a  revelation  of 
character,  for  it  showed  that  though  she  knew  who  he 
was  she  wanted  to  put  him  at  his  ease.  This  is  a 
delightful  attribute  in  a  woman,  and  worth  thinking 
about. 

Just  before  Miss  Abinger  said  “  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Angus  ?  ”  Rob  had  realized  what  people  mean  by  call¬ 
ing  her  proud.  She  was  holding  her  head  very  high 
as  she  appeared  in  the  path,  and  when  Nell  told  her 
who  Rob  was  she  flushed.  He  looked  hopelessly  at 
her,  bereft  of  speech,  as  he  saw  a  tear  glisten  on  her 
eyelid ;  and  as  their  eyes  met  she  read  into  the  agony 
that  he  was  suffering  because  he  had  hurt  her.  It  was 
then  that  Mary  made  that  memorable  observation, 
“  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus  ?  ” 

They  turned  toward  the  castle  doors,  Nell  and  the 
baronet  in  front,  and  Rob  blurted  out  some  self-re¬ 
proaches  in  sentences  that  had  neither  beginning  nor 
end.  Mary  had  told  him  not  to  take  it  so  terribly  to 
heart,  but  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  for  this  had 
been  a  night  of  incident  to  her.  Rob  knew  that  it  was 


96 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


for  his  sake  she  hacl  checked  that  tear,  and,  as  he  sat 
in  his  lodgings  through  the  night  he  saw  that  she  had 
put  aside  her  own  troubles  to  lessen  his.  When  he 
thought  of  that  he  drew  a  great  breath.  The  next 
moment  his  whole  body  shuddered  to  think  what  a 
brute  he  had  been,  and  then  she  seemed  to  touch  his 
elbow  again,  and  he  half  rose  from  his  chair  in  a 
transport. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  his  lodgings,  Rob  had  taken 
up  “  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,”  which  he  had  not  yet  re¬ 
turned  to  Mr.  Licquorislv.and  re-read  it  in  a  daze. 
There  were  things  in  it  so  beautiful  now  that  they 
caught  in  his  throat  and  stopped  his  reading;  they 
took  him  so  far  into  the  thoughts  of  a  girl  that  to  go 
farther  seemed  like  eavesdropping.  When  he  read  it 
first  “  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ”  had  been  written  in  a 
tongue  Rob  did  not  know,  but  now  he  had  the  key  in 
his  hands.  There  is  a  universal  language  that  comes 
upon  young  people  suddenly,  and  enables  an  English 
girl,  for  instance,  to  understand  what  a  Chinaman 
means  when  he  looks  twice  at  her.  Rob  had  mas¬ 
tered  it  so  suddenly,  that  he  was  only  its  slave  at  pres¬ 
ent.  His  horse  had  run  away  with  him. 

Had  the  critic  of  “  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ”  been  a 
bald-headed  man  with  two  chins,  who  did  not  know 
the  authoress,  he  would  have  smiled  at  the  severity 
with  which  she  took  perfidious  man  to  task,  and 
written  an  indulgent  criticism  without  reading  be¬ 
yond  the  second  chapter.  If  he  had  been  her  father 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


97 


he  would  have  laughed  a  good  deal  at  her  heroics,  but 
now  and  again  they  would  have  touched  him,  and  he 
would  have  locked  the  book  away  in  his  desk,  seeing 
no  particular  cleverness  in  it,  but  feeling  proud  of  his 
daughter.  It  would  have  brought  such  thoughts  to 
him  about  his  wife  as  suddenly  fill  a  man  with  tender¬ 
ness — thoughts  he  seldom  gives  expression  to,  though 
she  would  like  to  hear  them. 

Rob,  however,  drank  in  the  book,  his  brain  filled 
with  the  writer  of  it.  It  was  about  a  young  girl  who 
had  given  her  heart  to  a  stranger,  and  one  day  when 
she  was  full  of  the  joy  of  his  love  he  had  disappeared. 
She  waited,  wondering,  fearing,  and  then  her  heart 
broke,  and  her  only  desire  was  to  die.  No  one  could 
account  for  the  change  that  came  over  her,  for  she  was 
proud,  and  her  relatives  were  not  sympathetic.  She 
had  no  mother  to  go  to,  and  her  father  could  not  have 
understood.  She  became  listless,  and  though  she  smiled 
and  talked  to  all,  when  she  went  to  her  solitary  bed¬ 
chamber  she  turned  her  face  in  silence  to  the  wall. 
Then  a  fever  came  to  her,  and  after  that  she  had  to  be 
taken  to  the  Continent.  What  shook  her  listlessness 
was  an  accident  to  her  father.  It  was  feared  that  he 
was  on  his  death-bed,  and  as  she  nursed  him  she  saw 
that  her  life  had  been  a  selfish  one.  From  that 
moment  she  resolved  if  he  got  better  (Is  it  not  terrible 
this,  that  the  best  of  us  try  to  make  terms  with  God  ?) 
to  devote  her  life  to  him,  and  to  lead  a  nobler  exist¬ 
ence  among  the  poor  and  suffering  ones  at  home.  The 

7 


98 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


sudden  death  of  a  relative  who  was  not  a  good  man 
frightened  her  so  much  that  she  became  ill  again,  and 
now  she  was  so  fearful  of  being  untruthful  that  she 
could  not  make  a  statement  of  fact  without  adding,  “  I 
think  so,”  under  her  breath.  She  let  people  take 
advantage  of  her  lest  she  should  be  taking  advantage 
of  them,  and  when  she  passed  a  cripple  on  the  road 
she  walked  very  slowly  so  that  he  should  not  feel  his 
infirmity. 

Years  afterward  she  saw  the  man  who  had  pretended 
to  love  her  and  then  ridden  away.  He  said  that  he 
could  explain  everything  to  her,  and  that  he  loved  her 
still;  but  she  drew  herself  up,  and  with  a  look  of 
ineffable  scorn  told  him  that  she  no  longer  loved  him, 
When  they  first  met,  she  said,  she  had  been  little  more 
than  a  child,  and  so  she  had  made  an  idol  of  him.  But 
long  since  the  idol  had  crumbled  to  pieces,  and  now 
she  knew  that  she  had  worshipped  a  thing  of  clay. 
She  wished  him  well,  but  she  no  longer  loved  him. 
As  Lord  Caltonbridge  listened  he  knew  that  she  spoke 
the  truth,  and  his  eyes  drooped  before  her  dignified 
but  contemptuous  gaze.  Then,  concludes  the  author, 
dwelling  upon  this  little  triumph  with  a  satisfaction 
that  hardly  suggests  a  heart  broken  beyond  mending, 
he  turned  upon  his  heel,  at  last  realizing  what  he 
was ;  and,  feeling  smaller  and  meaner  than  had  been 
his  wont,  left  the  Grange  for  the  second  and  last 
time. 

How  much  of  this  might  be  fiction,  Rob  was  not  in 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


99 


a  mind  to  puzzle  over.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
soul  of  a  pure-minded  girl  had  been  laid  bare  to  him. 
To  look  was  almost  a  desecration,  and  yet  it  was  there 
whichever  way  he  turned.  A  great  longing  rose  in 
his  heart  to  see  Mary  Abinger  again  and  tell  her  what 
he  thought  of  himself  now.  He  rose  and  paced  the 
floor,  and  the  words  he  could  not  speak  last  night 
came  to  his  lips  in  a  torrent.  Like  many  men  who 
live  much  alone  Rob  often  held  imaginary  conversa¬ 
tions  with  persons  far  distant,  and  he  denounced  him¬ 
self  to  this  girl  a  score  of  times  as  he  paced  back  and 
forward.  Always  she  looked  at  him  in  reply  with 
that  wonderful  smile  which  had  pleaded  with  him  not 
to  be  unhappy  on  her  account.  Horrible  fears  laid 
hold  of  him  that  after  the  guests  had  departed  she 
had  gone  to  hertoom  and  wept.  That  villain  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent  had  doubtless  left  the  castle  for  the  second  and 
last  time,  “  feeling  smaller  and  meaner  than  had  been 
his  wont”  (Rob  clenched  his  fists  at  the  thought  of 
him) ;  but  how  could  he  dare  to  rage  at  the  baronet 
when  he  had  been  as  great  a  scoundrel  himself  ?  Rob 

looked  about  him  for  his  hat ;  a  power  not  to  be  re- 

% 

sisted  was  drawing  him  back  to  Dome  Castle. 

He  heard  the  clatter  of  crockery  in  the  kitchen  as 
he  opened  his  door,  and  it  recalled  him  to  himself. 
At  that  moment  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  had  for¬ 
gotten  to  write  any  notice  of  Colonel  Abinger’s  speech. 
He  had  neglected  the  office  and  come  straight  home. 
At  any  other  time  this  would  have  startled  him,  but 


WEEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


100 

t 

now  it  seemed  the  merest  trifle.  It  passed  for  the 
moment  from  his  mind,  and  its  place  was  taken  by  the 
remembrance  that  his  hoots  were  muddy  and  his  coat 

soaking.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  seriousness 

/ 

of  going  out  with  his  hair  unbrushed  came  home  to 
him.  He  had  hitherto  been  content  to  do  little  more 
than  fling  a  comb  at  it  once  a  day.  Rob  returned  to 
his  room,  and,  crossing  to  the  mirror,  looked  anxiously 
into  it  to  see  what  he  was  like.  He  took  off  his  coat 
and  brushed  it  vigorously. 

Having  laved  his  face,  he  opened  his  box  and  pro¬ 
duced  from  it  two  neckties,  which  he  looked  at  for  a 
long  time  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  which  to 
wear.  Then  he  changed  his  boots.  When  he  had 
brushed  his  hat  he  remembered  with  anxiety  some 
one  on  the  Mirror  having  asked  him  why  he  wore  it 
so  far  back  on  his  head.  He  tilted  it  forward,  and 
carefully  examined  the  effect  in  the  looking-glass. 
Then,  forgetful  that  the  sounds  from  the  kitchen  be¬ 
tokened  the  approach  of  breakfast,  he  hurried  out  of 
the  house.  It  was  a  frosty  morning,  and  already  the 
streets  were  alive,  but  Rob  looked  at  no  one.  For 
women  in  the  abstract  he  now  felt  an  unconscious 
pity,  because  they  were  all  so  very  unlike  Mary  Ab- 
inger.  He  had  grown  so  much  in  the  night  that  the 
Rob  Angus  of  the  day  before  seemed  but  an  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  his  youth. 

He  was  inside  the  grounds  of  Dome  Castle  again 
before  he  realized  that  he  had  no  longer  a  right  to  be 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


101 


there.  By  fits  and  starts  he  remembered  not  to  soil 
his  boots.  He  might  have  been  stopped  at  the  lodge, 
but  at  present  it  had  no  tenant.  A  year  before,  Col¬ 
onel  Abinger  had  realized  that  he  could  not  keep  both 
a  horse  and  a  lodge-keeper,  and  that  he  could  keep 
neither  if  his  daughter  did  not  part  with  her  maid. 
He  yielded  to  Miss  Abinger’s  entreaties,  and  kept  the 
horse. 

Kob  went  on  at  a  swinging  pace  till  he  turned  an 
abrupt  corner  of  the  walk  and  saw  Dome  Castle  stand¬ 
ing  up  before  him.  Then  he  started  and  turned  back 
hastily.  This  was  not  owing  to  his  remembering  that 
he  was  trespassing,  but  because  he  had  seen" a  young 
lady  coming  down  the  steps.  Rob  had  walked  five 

miles  without  his  breakfast  to  talk  to  Miss  Abinger, 

« 

but  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  fled.  When  he  came  to 
himself  he  was  so  fearful  of  her  seeing  him  that  he 
hurried  behind  a  tree,  where  he  had  the  appearance  of 
a  burglar. 

Mary  Abinger  came  quickly  up  the  avenue,  uncon¬ 
scious  that  she  was  watched,  and  Rob  discovered  in  a 
moment  that,  after  all,  the  prettiest  thing  about  her 
was  the  way  she  walked.  She  carried  a  little  basket 
in  her  hand,  and  her  dress  was  a  blending  of  brown 
and  yellow,  with  a  great  deal  of  fur  about  the  throat. 
Rob,  however,  did  not  take  the  dress  into  account  un¬ 
til  she  had  passed  him,  when,  no  longer  able  to  see  her 
face,  he  gazed  with  delight  after  her. 

Had  Ro'd  been  a  lady  he  would  probably  have  come 


102 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


to  the  conclusion  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Abinger 
wore  all  that  fur  instead  of  a  jacket  was  because  she 
knew  if  became  her  better.  Perhaps  it  was.  Even 
though  a  young  lady  has  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that 
her  heart  is  now  adamant,  that  is  no  excuse  for  her 
dressing  badly.  Eob’s  opinion  was  that  it  would  mat¬ 
ter  very  little  what  she  wore,  because  some  pictures 
look  lovely  in  any  frame,  but  that  was  a  point  on 
which  he  and  Miss  Abinger  always  differed.  Only 
after  long  consideration  had  she  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  hat  she  was  now  wearing  was  undoubtedly 
the  shape  that  suited  her  best,  and  even  yet  she  was 
ready  to  spend  time  in  thinking  about  other  shapes. 
What  would  have  seemed  even  more  surprising  to 
Rob  was  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  one 
side  of  her  face  was  better  than  the  other  side. 

No  mere  man,  however,  could  ever  have  told  which 
was  the  better  side  of  Miss  Abinger’s  face.  It  was 
a  face  to  stir  the  conscience  of  a  good  man,  and  make 
unworthy  men  keep  their  distance,  for  it  spoke  first 
of  purity,  which  can  never  be  present  anywhere  with¬ 
out  being  felt.  All  men  are  born  with  a  craving 
to  find  it,  and  they  never  look  for  it  but  among  wo. 
men.  The  strength  of  the  craving  is  the  measure  of 
any  man’s  capacity  to  love,  and  without  it  love  on  his 
side  would  be  impossible. 

Mary  Abinger  was  fragile  because  she  was  so  sen¬ 
sitive.  She  carried  everywhere  a  fear  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  others,  that  was  a  bodhin  at  her  heart. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


103 


Men  and  women  in  general  prefer  to  give  and  take. 
The  keenness  with  which  she  felt  necessitated  the 
garment  of  reserve,  which  those  who  did  not  need  it 
for  themselves  considered  pride.  Her  weakness  called 
for  something  to  wrap  it  up.  There  were  times  when 
it  pleased  her  to  know  that  the  disguise  was  effect* 
ive,  hut  not  when  it  deceived  persons  she  admired. 
The  cynicism  of  “  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ”  was  as  much 
a  cloak  as  her  coldness,  for  she  had  an  exquisite  love  of 
what  is  good  and  fine  in  life  and  idealized  into  heroes 
persons  slie  knew  or  heard  of  as  having  a  virtue.  It 
would  have  been  cruel  to  her  to  say  that  there  are  no 
heroes.  When  she  found  how  little  of  the  heroic  there 
was  in  Sir  Clement  Dowton  she  told  herself  that  there 
are  none,  and  sometimes  other  persons  had  made  her 
repeat  this  since.  She  seldom  reasoned  about  things, 
however,  unless  her  feelings  had  been  wounded,  and 
soon  again  she  was  dreaming  of  the  heroic.  Heroes 
are  people  to  love,  and  Mary’s  ideal  of  what  love  must 
be  would  have  frightened  some  persons  from  loving 
her.  With  most  men  affection  for  a  woman  is  fed 
on  her  regard  for  them.  Greatness  in  love  is  no  more 
common  than  greatness  in  leading  armies.  Only 
the  hundredth  man  does  not  prefer  to  dally  where 
woman  is  easiest  to  win ;  most  finding  the  maids  of 
honor  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  the  princess.  So 
the  boy  in  the  street  prefers  two  poor  apples  to  a 
sound  one.  It  may  be  the  secret  of  England’s  great¬ 


ness. 


104 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


On  this  Christmas  Day  Mary  Abinger  came  up  the 
walk  rapidly,  scorning  herself  for  ever  having  admired 
Sir  Clement  Dowton.  She  did  everything  in  the  su¬ 
perlative  degree,  and  so  rather  wondered  that  a  thun¬ 
derbolt  was  not  sent  direct  from  above  to  kill  him — as 
if  there  were  thunderbolts  for  every  one.  If  we  got 
our  deserts  most  of  us  would  be  knocked  on  the  head 
with  a  broomstick. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight,  Rob’s  courage  returned, 
and  he  remembered  that  he  was  there  in  the  hope  of 
speaking  to  her.  He  hurried  up  the  walk  after  her, 
but  when  he  neared  her  he  fell  back  in  alarm.  His 
heart  was  beating  violently.  He  asked  himself  in  a 
quaver  what  it  was  that  he  had  arranged  to  say  first. 

In  her  little  basket  Mary  had  Christmas  presents  for 
a  few  people,  inhabitants  of  a  knot  of  houses  not  far 
distant  from  the  castle  gates.  They  were  her  father’s 
tenants,  and  he  rather  enjoyed  their  being  unable 
to  pay  much  rent,  it  made  them  so  dependent.  Had 
Rob  seen  how  she  was  received  in  some  of  those  cot¬ 
tages,  how  she  sat  talking  merrily  with  one  bedrid¬ 
den  old  woman  whom  cheerfulness  kept  alive,  and 
not  only  gave  a  disabled  veteran  a  packet  of  tobacco, 
but  filled  his  pipe  for  him,  so  that  he  gallantly  said 
he  was  reluctant  to  smoke  it  (trust  an  old  man  for 
gallantry !),  and  even  ate  pieces  of  strange  cakes  to 
please  her  hostesses,  he  would  often  have  thought  of 
it  afterward.  However,  it  would  have  been  unneces¬ 
sary  prodigality  to  show  him  that,  for  his  mind  was 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


105 


filled  with  the  incomparable  manner  in  which  she 
knocked  at  doors  and  smiled  when  she  came  out. 
Once  she  dropped  her  basket,  and  he  could  remember 
nothing  so  exquisite  as  her  way  of  picking  it  up. 

Rob  lurked  behind  trees  and  peered  round  hedges, 
watching  Miss  Abinger  go  from  one  house  to  an¬ 
other,  but  he  could  not  shake  himself  free  of  the  fear 
that  all  the  world  had  its  eye  on  him.  Hitherto  not 
his  honesty  but  its  bluntness  had  told  against  him 
(the  honesty  of  a  good  many  persons  is  only  stupidity 
asserting  itself),  and  now  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
be  honest.  When  any  wayfarers  approached  he 
whistled  to  the  fields  as  if  he  had  lost  a  dog  in  them, 
or  walked  smartly  eastward  (until  he  got  round  a 
corner)  like  one  who  was  in  a  hurry  to  reach  Silches- 
ter.  He  looked  covertly  at  the  few  persons  who 
passed  him,  to  see  if  they  were  looking  at  him.  A 
solitary  crow  fluttered  into  the  air  from  behind  a 
wall,  and  Rob  started.  In  a  night  he  had  become 
self-conscious. 

At  last  Mary  turned  homeward,  with  the  sun  in 
her  face.  Rob  was  moving  toward  the  hamlet  when 
he  saw  her,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  came  to  a 
dead  stop.  He  knew  that  if  she  passed  inside  the 
gates  of  the  castle  his  last  chance  of  speaking  to  her 
was  gone ;  but  it  was  not  that  which  made  him  keep 
his  ground.  He  was  shaking  as  the  thin  boards 
used  to  do  when  they  shot  past  his  circular  saw. 
His  mind,  in  short,  had  run  away  and  left  him. 


106 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


On  other  "occasions  Mary  would  not  have  thought 
of  doing  more  than  how  to  Roh,  hut  he  had  Christ¬ 
mas  Day  in  his  favor,  and  she  smiled. 

“  A  happy  Christmas  to  you,  Mr.  Angus,”  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

It  was  then  that  Rob  lifted  his  hat,  and  overcame 
his  upbringing.  His  unaccustomed  fingers  insisted 
on  lifting  it  in  such  a  cautious  way  that,  in  a  court  of 
law,  it  could  have  been  argued  that  he  was  only 
planting  it  more  firmly  on  his  head.  He  did  not  do 
it  well,  but  he  did  it.  Some  men  would  have  suc¬ 
cumbed  altogether  on  realizing  so  sharply  that  it  is 
not  women  who  are  terrible,  but  a  woman.  Here  is 
a  clear  case  in  which  the  part  is  greater  than  the 
whole. 

Rob  would  have  liked  to  wish  Miss  Abinger  a 
happy  Christmas  too,  but  the  words  would  not  form, 
and  had  she  chosen  she  could  have  left  him  looking 
very  foolish.  But  Mary  had  blushed  slightly  when 
she  caught  sight  of  Rob  standing  helplessly  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  this  meant  that  she  under¬ 
stood  what  he  was  doing  there.  A  girl  can  overlook  a 
great  deal  in  a  man  who  admires  her.  She  feels  hap¬ 
pier.  It  increases  her  self-respect.  So  Miss  Abinger 
told  him  that,  if  the  frost  held,  the  snow  would  soon 
harden,  but  if  a  thaw  came  it  would  melt ;  and  then 
Rob  tore  out  of  himself  the  words  that  tended  to  slip 
back  as  they  reached  his  tongue. 

“  I  don’t  know  how  I  could  have  done  it,”  he  said 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


107 


feebly,  beginning  at  the  end  of  what  he  had  meant  to 
say.  There  he  stuck  again. 

Mary  knew  what  he  spoke  of,  and  her  pale  face 
colored.  She  shrank  from  talking  of  “  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns.” 

“  Please  don’t  let  that  trouble  you,”  she  said,  with 
an  effort.  “  I  was  really  only  a  school-girl  when  I 
wrote  it,  and  Miss  Meredith  got  it  printed  recently  as  a 
birthday  surprise  for  me.  I  assure  you  I  would  never 
have  thought  of  publishing  it'  myself  for — for  people 
to  read.  School-girls,  you  know,  Mr.  Angus,  are  full 
of  such  silly  sentiment.” 

A  breeze  of  indignation  shook  “  No,  no !  ”  out  of 
Rob,  but  Mary  did  not  heed. 

“I  know  better  now,”  she  said;  “indeed,  not  even 
you,  the  hardest  of  my  critics,  sees  more  clearly  than  I 
the — the  childishness  of  the  book.” 

Miss  Abinger’s  voice  faltered  a  very  little,  and  Rob’s 
sufferings  allowed  him  to  break  out. 

“No,”  he  said,  with  a  look  of  appeal  in  his  eyes  that 
were  as  gray  as  hers,  “  it  was  a  madness  that  let  me 
write  like  that.  4  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  ’  is  the  most 

beautiful,  the  tenderest - ”  He  stuck  once  more. 

Miss  Abinger  could  have  helped  him  again,  but  she  did 
not.  Perhaps  she  wanted  him  to  go  on.  He  could  not 
do  so,  but  he  repeated  what  he  had  said  already,  which 
may  have  been  the  next  best  thing  to  do. 

“  You  do  surprise  me  now?  Mr.  Angus,”  said  Mary, 


108 


WREN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


light-hearted  all  at  once,  “  for  you  know  you  scarcely 
wrote  like  that.” 

“  Ah,  hut  I  have'  read  the  book  since  I  saw  you,7' 
Rob  blurted  out,  “  and  that  has  made  such  a  difference.” 

A  wiser  man  might  have  said  a  more  foolish  thing. 
Mary  looked  up  smiling.  Her  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  at  once  she  became  merciless.  Hitherto  she  had 
only  tried  to  be  kind  to  Rob,  but  now  she  wanted  to  be 
kind  to  herself. 

“You  can  hardly  have  re-read  my  story  since  last 
night,”  she  said,  shaking  her  fair  head  demurely. 

“  I  read  it  all  through  the  night,”  exclaimed  Rob, 
in  such  a  tone  that  Mary  started.  She  had  no  desire 
to  change  the  conversation,  however ;  she  did  not  start 
so  much  as  that. 

“  But  you  had  to  write  papa’s  speech  ?  ”  she  said. 

“  I  forgot  to  do  it,”  Rob  answered,  awkwardly.  His 
heart  sank,  for  he  saw  that  here  was  another  cause  he 
had  given  Miss  Abinger  to  dislike  him.  Possibly  he 
was  wrong.  There  may  be  extenuating  circumstances 
that  will  enable  the  best  of  daughters  to  overlook  an 
affront  to  her  father’s  speeches. 

“  But  it  was  in  the  Mirror.  I  read  it,”  said  Mary. 

“Was  it?”  said  Rob,  considerably  relieved.  How 
it  could  have  got  there  was  less  of  a  mystery  to  him 
than  to  her,  for  Protheroe  had  sub-edited  so  many 
speeches  to  tenants  that  in  an  emergency  he  could  al¬ 
ways  guess  at  what  the  landlord  said. 

“  It  was  rather  short,”  Mary  admitted,  “  compared 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


109 


with  the  report  in  the  Argus.  Papa  thought - ” 

She  stopped  hastily. 

“  He  thought  it  should  have  been  longer  ?  ”  asked 
Hob.  Then,  before  he  had  time  to  think  of  it,  he  had 
told  her  of  his  first  meeting. with  the  colonel. 

“I  remember  papa  was  angry  at  the  time,”  Mary 
said,  “  but  you  need  not  have  been  afraid  of  his  recog¬ 
nizing  you  last  night.  He  did  recognize  you.” 

“  Did  hs  ?  ” 

“  Yes ;  but  you  were  his  guest.” 

Rob  could  not  think  of  anything  more  to  say,  and  he 
saw  that  Mary  was  about  to  bid  him  good-morning. 
He  found  himself  walking  with  her  in  the  direction  of 
the  castle  gates. 

c*  This  scenery  reminds  me  of  Scotland,”  he  said. 

“  I  love  it,”  said  Mary  (man’s  only  excellence  over 
woman  is  that  his  awe  of  this  word  prevents  his  using 
it  so  lightly),  “  and  I  am  glad  that  I  shall  be  here  until 
the  season  begins.”  . 

Rob  had  no  idea  what  the  season  was,  but  he  saw 
That  some  time  Mary  would  be  going  away,  and  his 
face  said,  What  would  he  do  then  ? 

“  Then  I  go  to  London  with  the  Merediths,”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  adding  thoughtfully,  “  I  suppose  you  mean  to 
go  to  London,  Mr.  Angus  ?  My  brother  says  that  all 
literary  men  drift  there.” 

“Yes,  oh,  yes,”  said  Rob. 

“  Soon  ?  ” 

“  Immediately,”  he  replied,  recklessly. 


110 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


They  reached  the  gates,  and,  as  Mary  held  out  her 
hand,  the  small  basket  was  tilted  upon  her  arm,  and  a 
card  fluttered  out. 

“  It  is  a  Christmas  card  a  little  hoy  in  one  of  those 
houses  gave  me,”  she  said,  as  Rob  returned  it  to  her. 
“  Have  you  got  many  Christmas  cards  to-day,  Mr. 
Angus  ?  ” 

“  None,”  said  Rob. 

“Not  even  from  your  relatives?”  asked  Mary,  be¬ 
ginning  to  pity  him  more  than  was  necessary. 

“I  have  no  relatives,”  he  replied;  “  they  are  all 
dead.” 

“  I  was  in  Scotland  two  summers  ago,”  Mary  said, 
very  softly,  “  at  a  place  called  Glen  Quharity ;  papa 
was  there  shooting.  But  I  don’t  suppose  you  know 
it?” 

“  Our  Glen  Quharity  !  ”  exclaimed  Rob ;  “  why,  you 
must  have  passed  through  Thrums  ?  ” 

“  We  were  several  times  in  Thrums.  Have  you  been 
there  ?  ” 

“  I  was  born  in  it ;  I  was  never  thirty  miles  away 
from  it  until  I  came  here.” 

“Oh,”  cried  Mary,  “then  you  must  be  the  liter¬ 
ary - ”  She  stopped  and  reddened. 

“  The  literary  saw-miller,”  said  Rob,  finishing  her 
sentence ;  “  that  was  what  they  called  me,  I  know,  at 
Glen  Quharity  Lodge.” 

Mary  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new  interest,  for  when 
she  was  there,  Glen  Quharity  had  been  full  of  the  saw- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Ill 


miller,  who  could  not  only  talk  in  Greek,  but  had  a 
reputation  for  tossing  the  caber. 

“  Papa  told  me  some  months  ago,”  she  said,  in  sur¬ 
prise,  “that  the  liter — that  you  had  joined  the  press  in 
England,  hut  he  evidently  did  not  know  of  your  being 
in  Silchester.” 

“But  how  could  he  have  known  anything  about  me?” 
asked  Rob,  surprised  in  turn. 

“  This  is  so  strange,”  Mary  answered.  “  Why,  papa 
takes  credit  for  having  got  you  your  appointment  on 
the  press.” 

“It  was  a  minister,  a  Mr.  Rorrison,  who.  did  that 
for  me,”  said  Rob ;  “  indeed,  he  was  so  good  that  I 
could  have  joined  the  press  a  year  ago  by  his  help, 
had  not  circumstances  compelled  me  to  remain  at 
home.” 

“  I  did  not  know  the  clergyman’s  name,”  Mary  said, 
“  but  it  was  papa  who  spoke  of  you  to  him  first.  Don’t 
you  remember  writing  out  this  clergyman’s  sermon  in 
shorthand,  and  a  messenger’s  coming  to  you,  for  your 
report,  on  horseback  next  day  ?” 

“  Certainly  I  do,”  said  Rob,  “  and  lie  asked  me  to 
write  it  out  in  longhand  as  quickly  as  possible.  That 
was  how  I  got  to  know  Mr.  Rorrison ;  and,  as  I  un¬ 
derstood,  he  had  sent  for  the  report  of  the  sermon,  on 
hearing  accidentally  that  I  had  taken  it  down,  because 
he  had  some  reason  for  wanting  a  copy  of  it.” 

Perhaps  that  was  how  it  was  told  to  you  after- 


112 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


ward,”  Mary  said,  “  but  it  was  really  papa  who  wanted 
the  sermon.” 

“  I  should  like  to  know  all  about  it,”  Rob  said,  see¬ 
ing  that  she  hesitated.  Colonel  Abinger  had  not 
seemed  to  him  the  kind  of  man  who  would  send  a 
messenger  on  horseback  about  the  country  in  quest  of 
sermons. 

“  I  am  afraid,”  Mary  explained,  “  that  it  arose  out 
of  a  wager.  This  clergyman  was  staying  at  the 
Lodge,  but  papa  was  the  only  other  person  there  who 
would  go  as  far  as  Thrums  to  hear  him  preach.  I 
was  not  there  that  year,  so  I  don’t  know  why  papa 
went,  but  when  he  returned  he  told  the  others  that 
the  sermon  had  been  excellent.  There  is  surely  an 
English  church  in  Thrums,  for  I  am  sure  papa  would 
not  think  a  sermon  excellent  that  was  preached  in  a 
chapel  ?  ” 

“  There  is,”  said  Rob  ;  “  but  in  Thrums  it  is  called 
the  chapel.” 

“Well,  some  badinage  arose  out  of  papa’s  eulogy, 
and  it  ended  in  a  bet  that  he  could  not  tell  the  others 
what  this  fine  sermon  was  about.  He  was  to  get  a 
night  to  think  it  over.  Papa  took  the  bet  a  little 
rashly,  for  when  he  put  it  to  himself  he  found  that 
he  could  not  even  remember  the  text.  As  he  told  me 
afterwards  (here  Mary  smiled  a  little),  he  had  a  gen¬ 
eral  idea  of  the  sermon,  but  could  not  quite  put  it 
into  words,  and  he  was  fearing  that  he  would  lose 
the  wager  (and  be  laughed  at,  which  always  vexes 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


113 

papa),  when  lie  heard  of  your  report.  So  a  mes¬ 
senger  was  sent  to  Thrums  for  it — and  papa  won  his 
bet.” 

“But  how  did  Mr.  Rorrison  hear  of  my  report, 
then  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  forgot ;  papa  told  him  afterward,  and  was 
so  pleased  with  his  victory  that,  when  he  heard  Mr. 
Rorrison  had  influence  with  some  press  people,  he 
suggested  to  him  that  something  might  be  done  for 
you.” 

“This  is  strange,”  said  Rob,  “and  perhaps  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  if  Colonel  Abinger 
could  identify  me  with  the  saw- miller  he  would  be 

v 

sorry  that  he  had  interfered.” 

Mary  saw  the  force  of  this  so  clearly  that  she  could 
not  contradict  him. 

“  Surely,”  she  said,  “  I  heard  when  I  was  at  the 
Lodge  of  your  having  a  niece,  and  that  you  and  the 
little  child  lived  alone  in  the  saw-mill  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  Rob  answered  hoarsely,  “but  she  is  dead. 
She  wandered  from  home,  and  was  found  dead  on  a 
mountain-side.” 

“Was  it  long  ago?”  asked  Mary,  very  softly. 

“Only  a  few  months  ago,”  Rob  said,  making  his 
answer  as  short  as  possible,  for  the  death  of  Davy 
moved  him  still.  “  She  was  only  four  years  old.” 

Mary’s  hand  went  half-way  toward  his  involun¬ 
tarily.  His  mouth  was  twitching.  He  knew  how 
good  she  was. 


8 


114 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  That  card,”  he  began,  and  hesitated. 

“  Oh,  would  you  care  to  have  it  ?”  said  Mary. 

But  just  then  Colonel  Abinger  walked  in  to  them, 
somewhat  amazed  to  see  his  daughter  talking  to  one 
of  the  lower  orders.  Neither  Rob  nor  Mary  had  any 
inclination  to  tell  him  that  this  was  the  Scotsman  he 
had  befriended. 

“This  is  Mr.  Angus,  papa,”  said  Mary,  “who — 
who  was  with  us  last  night.” 

“Mr.  Angus  and  I  have  met  before,  I  think,”  re¬ 
plied  her  father,  recalling  the  fishing  episode.  His 
brow  darkened,  and  Rob  was  ready  for  anything, 
blit  Colonel  Abinger  was  a  gentleman. 

“  I  always  wanted  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Angus,” 
he  said,  with  an  effort,  “  to  ask  you — what  flies  you 
were  using  that  day  ?  ” 

Rob  muttered  something  in  answer,  which  the 
colonel  did  not  try  to  catch.  Mary  smiled  and 
bowed,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  disappeared 
with  her  father  down  the  avenue. 

What  followed  cannot  be  explained.  When  Rob 
roused  himself  from  his  amazement  at  Mary  Abin- 
ger’s  having  been  in  Thrums  without  his  feeling  her 
presence,  something  made  him  go  a  few  yards  inside 
the  castle  grounds,  and,  lying  lightly  on  the  snow,  he 
saw  the  Christmas  card.  He  lifted  it  up  as  if  it  were 
a  rare  piece  of  china,  and  held  it  in  his  two  hands 
as  though  it  were  a  bird  which  might  escape.  He  did 
not  know  whether  it  had  dropped  there  of  its  own 


WHEN  A  MAN' S  SINGLE. 


115 


accord,  and  doubt  and  transport  fought  for  victory  on 
his  face.  At  last  he  put  the  card  exultingly  into  his 
pocket,  his  chest  heaved,  and  he  went  toward  Sil- 
chester  whistling. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  GRAND  PASSION? 

One  of  the  disappointments  of  life  is  that  the  per. 
sons  w©  think  we  have  reason  to  dislike  are  seldom 
altogether  villains ;  they  are  not  made  sufficiently  big 
for  it.  When  we  can  go  to  sleep  in  an  arm-chair  this 
ceases  to  be  a  trouble,  but  it  vexed  Mary  Abinger. 
Her  villain  of  fiction,  on  being  haughtily  rejected,  had 
at  least  left  the  heroine’s  home  looking  a  little  cowed. 
Sir  Clement  in  the  same  circumstances  had  stayed  on. 

The  colonel  had  looked  forward  resentfully  for 
years  to  meeting  this  gentleman  again,  and  giving  him 
a  piece  of  his  stormy  mind.  When  the  opportunity 
came,  however,  Mary’s  father  instead  asked  his  unex¬ 
pected  visitor  to  remain  for  a  week.  Colonel  Abinger 
thought  he  was  thus  magnanimous  because  his  guest 
had  been  confidential  with  him,  but  it  was  perhaps 
rather  because  Sir  Clement  had  explained  how  much 
he  thought  of  him.  To  dislike  our  admirers  is  to  be 
severe  on  ourselves,  and  is  therefore  not  common. 

The  Dome  had  introduced  the  colonel  to  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent  as  well  as  to  Rob.  One  day  Colonel  Abinger  had 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


117 


received  by  letter  from  a  little  hostelry  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  the  compliments  of  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  and 
a  request  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  fish  in  the  pre¬ 
served  water.  All  that  Mary’s  father  knew  of  Dow¬ 
ton  at  that  time  was  that  he  had  been  lost  to  English 
society  for  half  a  dozen  years.  Once  in  many  months 
the  papers  spoke  of  him  as  serving  under  Gordon  in 
China,  as  being  taken  captive  by  an  African  king, 
as  having  settled  down  in  a  cattle  ranche  in  the 
vicinity  of  Manitoba.  His  lawyers  were  probably 
aware  of  his  whereabouts  oftener  than  other  persons. 
All  that  society  knew  was  that  he  hated  England 
because  one  of  its  daughters  had  married  a  curate. 
The  colonel  called  at  the  inn,  and  found  Sir  Clement 
such  an  attentive  listener  that  he  thought  the  baro¬ 
net’s  talk  quite  brilliant.  A  few  days  afterward  the 
stranger’s  traps  were  removed  to  the  castle,  and  then 
he  met  Miss  Abinger,  who  was  recently  home  from 
school.  He  never  spoke  to  her  of  his  grudge  against 
England. 

It  is  only  the  unselfish  men  who  think  much,  other¬ 
wise  Colonel  Abinger  might  have  pondered  a  little 
over  his  guest.  Dowton  had  spoken  of  himself  as  an 
enthusiastic  angler,  yet  he  let  his  flies  drift  down  the 
stream  like  fallen  leaves.  He  never  remembered  to 
go  a-fishing  until  it  was  suggested  to  him.  He  had 
given  his  host  several  reasons  for  his  long  absence 
from  his  property,  and  told  him  he  did  not  want  the 
world  to  know  that  he  was  back  in  England,  as  he 


118 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


was  not  certain  whether  he  would  remain.  The  colo¬ 
nel  at  his  request  introduced  him  to  the  few  visitors  at 
the  castle  as  Mr.  Dowton,  and  was  surprised  to  dis¬ 
cover  afterward  that  they  all  knew  his  real  name. 

“  I  assure  you,”  Mary’s  father  said  to  him,  “  that 
they  have  not  learned  it  from  me.  It  is  incompre¬ 
hensible  how  a  thing  like  that  leaks  out.” 

“I  don’t  understand  it,”  said  Dowton,  who,  how¬ 
ever,  should  have  understood  it,  as  he  had  taken  the 
visitors  aside  and  told  them  his  real  name  himself. 
He  seemed  to  do  this  not  of  his  free  will,  but  because 
he  could  not  help  it. 

It  never  struck  the  colonel  that  his  own  society 
was  not  what  tied  Sir  Clement  to  Dome  Castle ;  for 
widowers  with  grown-up  daughters  are  in  a  foreign 
land  without  interpreters.  On  that  morning  when  the 
baronet  vanished,  nevertheless,  the  master  of  Dome 
Castle  was  the  only  person  in  it  who  did  not  think 
that  it  would  soon  lose  its  mistress,  mere  girl  though 
she  was. 

Sir  Clement’s  strange  disappearance  was  accounted 
for  at  the  castle,  where  alone  it  was  properly  known, 
in  various  ways.  Miss  Abinger,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  servants’  hall,  held  her  head  so  high  that  there  he 
was  believed  to  have  run  away  because  she  had  said 
him  no.  Miss  Abinger  excused  and  blamed  him 
alternately  to  herself  until  she  found  a  dull  satisfac¬ 
tion  in  looking  upon  him  as  the  villain  he  might 
have  been  had  his  high  forehead  spoken  true.  As 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


119 


for  the  colonel,  he  ordered  Mary  (he  had  no  ngMti}  idever 
to  mention  the  fellow’s  name  to  him,  hut  mentioned  ife 
frequently  himself. 

Nothing  had  happened,  so  far  as  war-  know^i,  to 
disturb  the  baronet’s  serenity ;  neither  friends  nor 
lawyers  had  been  aware  that  he  was  in  England,  and  he 
had  received  no  letters.  Mary  remembered  his  occa¬ 
sional  fits  of  despondency,  but  on  the  whole  he  seemed 
to  revel  in  his  visit,  and  had  never  looked  happier  than 
the  night  before  he  went.  His  traps  were  sent  by  the 
colonel  in  a  fury  to  the  little  inn  where  he  had  at  first 
-taken  up  his  abode,  but  it  was  not  known  at  the  castle 
■^diether  he  ever  got  them.  Some  months  afterward  a 
letter  from  him  appeared  in  the  Times ,  dated  from 
Suez,  \md  from  then  until  he  reappeared  at  Dome 
Castle  Ithc  colonel,  except  when  he  s[  oke  to  himself, 
never  he^d  the  haronet’s  name  mentioned. 

Sir  Clemknf  niust  have  been  very  impulsive,  for  on 
returning  to  castle  he  had  intended  to  treat  Miss 
Abinger  with  courteous  coldness,  as  if  she  had  been 
responsible  for  hisVght,  and  he  had  rot  seen  her  again 
for  ten  minutes  before  he  asked  her  to  marry  him-.  He 
meant  to  explain  his  conduct  in  one  way  to  the  colonel, 
and  he  explained  it  in  qu\jte  another  way. 

When  Colonel  Abinger  V>ok  him  into  the  smoking- 
room  on  Christmas  Eve  to  hcvar  what  he  had  to  say  for 
himself,  the  baronet  sank  int\o  a  chair,  with  a  look 
of  contentment  on  his  beautiful  \face  that  said  he  was 
glad  to  be  there  again.  Then  the  colonel  happened  to 


no 


WHEN-  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


mention  Mary’s  name  in  such  a  way  that  he  seemed 
to  know  of  Sir  Clement’s  proposal  to  her  three  years 
earlier.  At  once  the  baronet  began  another  story 
from  the  one  he  had  meant  to  tell,  and  though  he  soon 
discovered  that  he  had  credited  his  host  with  a  knowl¬ 
edge  the  colonel  did  not  possess,  it  was  too  late  to  draw 
back.  So  Mary’s  father  heard  to  his  amazement  that 
the  baronet  had  run  away  because  he  was  in  love  with 
Miss  Abinger.  Colonel  Abinger  had  read  “  The  Scorn 
of  Scorns,”  but  it  had  taught  him  nothing. 

“  She  was  only  a  school-girl  when  you  saw  her  last,” 
he  said,  in  bewilderment ;  “  but  I  hardly  see  how  that 
should  have  made  you  fly  the  house  like — yes,  like  a^ 
thief.” 

Dowton  looked  sadly  at  him. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  he  said,  speaking  as  if  with, 
tance,  “  that  in  any  circumstances  I  should  be  m  reluc- 
in  telling  you  the  whole  miserable  story,  justified 
not  guess  it?  When  I  came  here  I  wa^ Can  you 
man.”  not  a  free 

“You  were  already  married?” 

“No,  but  I  was  engaged  to  be  rm 
“Did  Mary  know  anything  of  irfrried .” 

“  Nothing  of  that  engagein^iis  ?  ” 
think,  of  the  attachment  thatJ^nt,  and  but  little,  I 
her.  I  kept  that  to  myseiyf  grew  up  in  my  heart  for 
“  She  was  too  young, 
think  of  such  things  th^  said  the  wise  colonel,  “  to 
why  you  should  hav^en ;  and  even  now  I  do  not  see 

Tleft  us  as  you  did.’ 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  121 

Sir  Clement  rose  to  liis  feet  and  paced  the  room  in 
great  agitation. 

“  It  is  hard,”  he  said  at  last,  “  to  speak  of  such  a 
thing  to  another  man.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Ahinger^ 
that  when  I  was  with  you  three  years  ago  there  were 
times  when  I  thought  I  would  lose  my  reason.  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  have  such  a  passion  as  that  raging 
in  your  heart,  and  yet  have  to  stifle  it  ?  There  were 
whole  nights  when  I  walked  up  and  down  my  room 
till  dawn.  I  trembled  every  time  I  saw  Miss  Abinger 
alone  lest  I  should  say  that  to  her  which  I  had  no  right 
to  say.  Her  voice  alone  was  sufficient  to  unman  me. 
I  felt  that  my  only  safety  was  in  flight.” 

“  I  have  run  away  from  a  woman  myself  in  my  time,” 
the  colonel  said,  with  a  grim  chuckle.  “  There  are  oc¬ 
casions  when  it  is  the  one  thing  to  do ;  but  this  was 
surely  not  one  of  them,  if  Mary  knew  nothing.” 

“  Sometimes  I  feared  she  did  know  that  I  cared  for 

* 

her.  That  is  a  hard  thing  to  conceal,  and  besides 
I  suppose  I  felt  so  wretched  that  I  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  act  rationally.  When  I  left  the  castle 
that  day  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  not  return- 
mg.” 

“  And  since  then  you  have  been  half  round  the  world 
again  ?  Are  you  married  ?  ” 

“  Ho.” 

“  Then  I  am  to  understand - ” 

“That  she  is  dead,”  said  Sir  Clement,  in  a  low 
voice. 


122  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them,  which  was  at  last 
broken  by  the  colonel. 

“  What  you  have  told  me,”  he  said,  “  is  a  great  sur¬ 
prise,  more  especially  with  regard  to  my  daughter. 
Being  but  a  child  at  the  time,  however,  she  could  not, 
I  am  confident,  have  thought  of  you  in  any  other  light 
than  as  her  father’s  friend.  It  is,  of  course,  on  that 
footing  that  you  return  now  ?  ” 

“  As  her  father’s  friend,  certainly,  I  hope,”  said  the 
baronet  firmly ;  “  but  I  wish  to  tell  you  now  that  my 
regard  for  her  has  never  changed.  I  confess  I  would 
have  been  afraid  to  come  back  to  you,  had  not  my  long¬ 
ing  to  see  her  again  given  me  courage.” 

“  She  has  not  the  least  idea  of  this,”  murmured  the 
colonel — “  not  the  least.  The  fact  is  that  Mary  has 
lived  so  quietly  with  me  here  that  she  is  still  a  child. 
Miss  Meredith,  whom  I  dare  say  you  have  met  here, 
has  been  almost  her  only  friend,  and  I  am  quite  certain 
that  the  thought  of  marriage  has  never  crossed  their 
minds.  If  you,  or  even  if  I,  were  to  speak  of  such  a 
thing  to  Mary  it  would  only  frighten  her.” 

“  I  should  not  think  of  speaking  to  her  on  the  sub¬ 
ject  at  present,”  the  baronet  interposed  rather  hur¬ 
riedly,  “  but  I  thought  it  best  to  explain  my  position 
to  you.  You  know  what  I  am — that  I  have  been 
almost  a  vagrant  on  the  face  of  the  earth  since  I 
reached  manhood;  but  no  one  can  see  more  clearly 
than  I  do  myself  how  unworthy  I  am  of  her.” 

“  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you,”  said  the  colonel,  taking 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


123 


the  baronet’s  hand,  “  that  I  used  to  like  you,  Dowton, 
and  indeed  I  knew  no  one  whom  I  w'ould  prefer  for  a 
son-in-law.  But  you  must  be  cautious  with  Mary.” 

“  I  shall  be  very  cautious,”  said  the  baronet ;  “  in¬ 
deed  there  is  no  hurry — none  whatever.” 

Colonel  Abinger  would  have  brought  the  conversa¬ 
tion  to  a  close  here,  but  there  was  something  more  for 
Dowton  to  say. 

“  I  agree  with  you,”  he  said,  forgetting,  perhaps, 
that  the  colonel  had  not  spoken  on  this  point,  “  that 
Miss  Abinger  should  be  kept  ignorant  for  the  present 
of  the  cause  that  drove  me  on  that  former  occasion 
from  the  castle.” 

“  It  is  the  wisest  course  to  adopt,”  said  the  colonel, 
looking  as  if  he  had  thought  the  matter  out  step  by 
step. 

“The  only  thing  I  am  doubtful  about,”  continued 
Dowton,  “  is  whether  Miss  Abinger  will  not  think 
that  she  is  entitled  to  some  explanation.  She  can¬ 
not,  I  fear,  have  forgotten  the  circumstances  of  my 
departure.” 

“  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score,”  said  the 
colonel ;  “  the  best  proof  that  Mary  gave  the  matter 
little  thought,  even  at  the  time,  is  that  she  did  not 
speak  of  it  to  me.  Sweet  seventeen  has  always  a 
short  memory.” 

“But  I  have  sometimes  thought  since  that  Miss 
Abinger  did  care  for  me  a  little,  in  which  case  she 
would  have  unfortunate  cause  to  resent  my  flight .” 


124 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


While  he  spoke  the  baronet  was  looking  anxiously 
into  the  colonel’s  face. 

“  I  can  give  you  my  word  for  it,”  said  the  colonel 
cheerily,  “that  she  did  not  give  your  disappearance 
two  thoughts  ;  and  now  I  much  question  whether  she 
will  recognize  you.” 

Dowton’s  face  clouded,  but  the  other  misinterpreted 
the  shadow. 

“  So  put  your  mind  at  rest,”  said  the  colonel  kindly, 
“  and  trust  an  old  stager  like  myself  for  being  able  to 
read  into  a  woman’s  heart.” 

Shortly  afterward  Colonel  Abinger  left  his  guest, 
and  for  nearly  five  minutes  the  baronet  looked  de¬ 
jected.  It  is  sometimes  advantageous  to  hear  that  a 
lady  with  whom  you  have  watched  the  moon  rise 
has  forgotten  your  very  name,  but  it  is  never  com¬ 
plimentary.  By  and  by,  however,  Sir  Clement’s 
sense  of  humor  drove  the  gloom  from  his  chiseled 
face,  and  a  glass  bracket  over  the  mantelpiece  told 
him  that  he  was  laughing  heartily. 

It  was  a  small  breakfast  party  at  the  castle  next 
morning,  Sir  Clement  and  Greybrooke  being  the 
only  guests,  but  the  ^  baronet  was  so  gay  and  morose 
by  turns  that  he  might  have  been  two  persons.  In 
the  middle  of  a  laugh  at  some  remark  of  the  captain’s 
he  would  break  off  with  a  sigh,  and  immediately  after 
sadly  declining  another  cup  of  coffee  from  Mary,  he 
said  something  humorous  to  her  father.  The  one  mood 
was  natural  to  him  and  the  other  forced,  but  it  would 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


125 


have  been  difficult  to  decide  which  was  which.  It  is, 
however,  one  of  the  hardest  things  in  life  to  remain 
miserable  for  any  length  of  time  on  a  stretch.  When 
Dowton  found  himself  alone  with  Mary  his  fingers 
were  playing  an  exhilarating  tune  on  the  window-sill, 
but  as  he  looked  at  her  his  hands  fell  to  his  side,  and 
there  was  pathos  in  his  fine  eyes.  Drawn  toward  her, 
he  took  a  step  forward,  but  Miss  Abinger  said  “  No  ” 
so  decisively  that  he  stopped  irresolute. 

“  I  shall  be  leaving  the  castle  in  an  hour,”  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent  said,  slowly. 

“  Papa  told  me,”  said  Mary,  “  that  he  had  prevailed 
upon  you  to  remain  for  a  week.” 

“  He  pressed  me  to  do  so,  and  I  consented,  but  you 
have  changed  everything  since  then.  Ah,  Mary - ” 

“  Miss  Abinger,”  said  Mary. 

“  Miss  Abinger,  if  you  would  only  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say.  I  can  explain  everything.  I - ” 

“  There  is  nothing  to  explain,”  said  Mary — “  nothing 
that  I  have  either  a  right  or  a  desire  to  hear.  Please 
not  to  return  to  this  subject  again.  I  said  everything 
there  was  to  say  last  night.” 

The  baronet’s  face  paled,  and  he  bowed  his  head  in 
deep  dejection.  His  voice  was  trembling  a  little,  and 
he  observed  it  with  gratification  as  he  answered  : 

“  Then,  I  suppose,  I  must  bid  you  good-bye  ?  ” 

“  Good-bye,”  said  Mary.  “  Does  papa  know  you  are 
going  ?  ” 

“  I  promised  to  him  to  stay  on,”  said  Sir  Clement, 


126 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  and  I  can  hardly  expect  him  to  forgive  me  if  I  change 
my  mind.” 

This  was  put  almost  in  the  form  of  a  question,  and 
Mary  thought  she  understood  it. 

“  Then  you  mean  to  remain  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  You  compel  me  to  go,”  he  replied  dolefully. 

“  Oh,  no,”  said  Mary,  “  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  going  or  staying.” 

“  But  it — it  would  hardly  do  for  me  to  remain  after 
what  took  place  last  night,”  said  the  baronet,  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  was  open  to  contradiction. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  conversation  Mary  smiled. 
It  was  not,  however,  the  smile  every  man  would  care 
to  see  at  his  own  expense. 

“  If  you  were  to  go  now,”  she  said,  “  you  would 
not  be  fulfilling  your  promise  to  papa,  and  I  know 
that  men  do  not  like  to  break  their  word  to — to  other 
men.” 

“  Then  you  think  I  ought  to  stay  ?  ”  asked  Sir 
Clement  eagerly. 

“  It  is  for  you  to  think,”  said  Mary. 

“  Perhaps,  then,  I  ought  to  remain — for  Colonel 
Abinger’s  sake,”  said  the  baronet. 

Mary  did  not  answer. 

“  Only  for  a  few  days,”  he  continued,  almost  appeal- 
ingly. 

“Very  well,”  said  Mary. 

“And  you  won’t  think  the  worse  of  me  for  it?” 
asked  Dowton  anxiously.  “  Of  course,  if  I  were  to 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  127 

consult  my  own  wishes  I  would  go  now,  but  as  I 
promised  Colonel  Abinger - ” 

“  You  will  remain  out  of  consideration  for  papa. 
How  could  I  think  worse  of  you  for  that  ?  ” 

Mary  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  as  Sir  Clement 
opened  the  door  for  her  he  said  : 

“We  shall  say  nothing  of  all  this  to  Colonel 
Abinger  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  no,  certainly  not,”  said  Mary. 

She  glanced  up  in  his  face,  her  mouth  twisted 
slightly  to  one  side,  as  it  had  a  habit  of  doing  when 
she  felt  disdainful,  and  the  glory  of  her  beauty  filled 
him  of  a  sudden.  The  baronet  pushed  the  door  close 
and  turned  to  her  passionately,  a  film  over  his  eyes, 
and  his  hands  outstretched. 

“Mary,”  he  cried,  “  is  there  no  hope  for  me  ?” 

“No,”  said  Mary,  opening  the  door  for  herself  and 
passing  out. 

Sir  Clement  stood  there  motionless  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  crossed  to  the  fireplace,  and  sank  into  a  lux¬ 
uriously  cushioned  chair.  The  sunlight  came  back 
to  his  noble  face. 

“  This  is  grand,  glorious,”  he  murmured,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  enjoyment. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  baronet’s  behavior 
was  a  little  peculiar.  Occasionally  at  meals  he  seemed 
to  remember  that  a  rejected  lover  ought  not  to  have  a 
good  appetite.  If,  when  he  was  smoking  in  the 
grounds,  he  saw  Mary  approaching,  he  covertly  dropped 


128 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


his  cigar.  When  he  knew  that  she  was  sitting  at  a 
window  he  would  pace  up  and  down  the  walk  with 
his  head  bent  as  if  life  had  lost  its  interest  to  him. 
By  and  by  his  mind  wandered  on  these  occasions  to 
more  cheerful  matters,  and  he  would  start  to  find  that 
he  had  been  smiling  to  himself  and  swishing  his  cane 
playfully,  like  a  man  who  walked  on  air.  It  might 
have  been  said  of  him  that  he  tried  to  be  miserable  and 
found  it  hard  work. 

Will,  who  discovered  that  the  baronet  did  not  know 
what  1.  b.  w.  meant,  could  not,  nevertheless,  despise  a 
man  who  had  shot  lions,  but  he  never  had  quite  the 
same  respect  for  the  king  of  beasts  again.  As  for 
Greybrooke,  he  rather  liked  Sir  Clement,  because  he 
knew  that  Nell  (in  her  own  words)  “  loathed,  hated, 
and  despised  ”  him. 

Greybrooke  had  two  severe  disappointments  that 
holiday,  both  of  which  were  to  be  traced  to  the 
capricious  Nell.  It  had  dawned  on  him  that  she  could 
not  help  liking  him  a  little  if  she  saw  him  take  a 
famous  jump  over  the  Dome  known  to  legend  as  the 
“Robber’s  Leap.”  The  robber  had  lost  his  life  in 
trying  to  leap  the  stream,  but  the  captain  practiced 
in  the  castle  grounds  until  he  felt  that  he  could  clear 
it.  Then  he  formally  invited  Miss  Meredith  to  come 
and  see  him  do  it,  and  she  told  him  instead  that  he 
was  wicked.  The  captain  and  Will  went  back  silently 
to  the  castle,  wondering  what  on  earth  she  would 
like. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


129 


Greybrooke’s  other  disappointment  was  still  more 
grievous.  One  evening  lie  and  Will  returned  to  tlie 
castle  late  for  dinner — an  offense  the  colonel  found  it 
hard  to  overlook,  although  they  were  going  back  to 
school  on  the  following  day.  Will  reached  the  dining¬ 
room  first,  and  his  father  frowned  on  him. 

“You  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late,  William,”  said 
the  colonel  sternly.  “  Where  have  you  been  ?  ” 

Will  hesitated. 

“  Do  you  remember,”  he  said,  at  last,  “  a  man 
called  Angus,  who  was  here  reporting  on  Christmas 
Eve  ?  ” 

Mary  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork. 

“  A  painfully  powerful-looking  man,”  said  Dowton, 
“  in  hob-nailed  boots.  I  remember  him.” 

“  Well,  we  have  been  calling  on  him,”  said  Will. 

“Calling  on  him,  calling  on  that  impudent  news¬ 
paper  man !  ”  exclaimed  the  colonel,  “  what  do  you 
mean  ?  ” 

“  Greybrooke  had  a  row  with  him  some  time  ago,” 
said  Will ;  “  I  don’t  know  what  about,  because  it  was 
•private ;  but  the  captain  has  been  looking  for  the 
/ellow  for  a  fortnight  to  lick  him — I  mean  punish  him, 
We  came  upon  him  two  days  ago,  near  the  castle 
gates.” 

Here  Will  paused,  as  if  he  would  prefer  to  jump 
what  followed. 

“  And  did  your  friend  ‘  lick  ’  him,  then  ?  ”  asked  the 

colonel,  at  which  Will  shook  his  head. 

9 


130 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Why  not  ? 97  asked  Sir  Clement. 

“Well,”  said  Will  reluctantly,  “the  fellow  would 
not  let  him.  He — he  lifted  Greybrooke  up  in  his 
arms,  and — and  dropped  him  over  the  hedge.” 

Mary  could  not  help  laughing. 

“  The  beggar — I  mean  the  fellow — must  have  mus¬ 
cles  like  ivy-roots,”  Will  blurted  out  admiringly. 

“  I  fancy,”  said  Dowton,  “  that  I  have  seen  him  near 
the  gates  several  times  during  the  last  week.” 

“Very  likely,”  said  the  colonel  shortly.  “I  caught 
him  poaching  in  the  Dome  some  months  ago.  There 
is  something  bad  about  that  man.” 

“  Papa !  ”  said  Mary. 

At  this  moment  Greybrooke  entered. 

“  So,  Mr.  Greybrooke,”  said  the  colonel,  “  I  hear  you 
have  been  in  Silchester  avenging  an  insult.” 

The  captain  looked  at  Will,  who  nodded. 

“I  went  there,”  admitted  Greybrooke,  blushing, 
“to  horsewhip  a  reporter  fellow,  but  he  had  run 
away.” 

“  Run  away  ?  ” 

“Yes.  Did  not  Will  tell  you?  We  called  at  the 
Mirror  office,  and  were  told  that  Angus  had  bolted  to 
London  two  days  ago.”  , 

“  And  the  worst  of  it,”  interposed  Will,  “  is  that  he 
ran  off  without  paying  his  landlady’s  bill.” 

“I  knew  that  man  was  a  rascal,”  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

Mary  flushed. 


WHEN  A  MAX'S  SINGLE. 


131 


“  I  don’t  believe  it,”  she  said. 

“  You  don’t  believe  it,”  repeated  her  father  angrily; 
and  why  not,  pray?” 

“  Because — because  I  don’t,”  said  Mary. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


IK  FLEET  STREET. 

Mary  was  wrong.  It  was  quite  true  that  Rob  had 
run  away  to  London  without  paying  his  landlady’s 
bill. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  meeting  with  Miss 
Abinger  had  been  to  make  him  undertake  double  work 
and  not  do  it.  Looking  in  at  shop- windows,  where  he 
saw  hats  that  he  thought  would  just  suit  Mary  (he 
had  a  good  deal  to  learn  yet),  it  came  upon  him  that 
he  was  wasting  his  time.  Then  he  hurried  home,  con¬ 
temptuous  of  all  the  rest  of  Silchester,  to  write  an 
article  for  a  London  paper,  and  when  he  next  came  to 
himself,  half  an  hour  afterward,  he  was  sitting  before 
a  blank  sheet  of  copy-paper.  Lie  began  to  review  a 
book,  and  found  himself  gazing  at  a  Christmas  card. 
He  tried  to  think  out  the  action  of  a  government,  and 
thought  out  a  ring  on  Miss  Abinger’ s  finger  instead. 
Three  nights  running  he  dreamed  that  he  was  married, 
and  woke  up  quaking. 

Without  much  misgivings  Rob  heard  it  said  in  Sil¬ 
chester  that  there  was  some  one  staying  at  Dome 
Castle  who  was  to  be  its  mistress’  husband.  On 


WHEN  A  MAN  SINGLE. 


133 


discovering  that  they  referred  to  Dowton,  and  not  be¬ 
ing  versed  in  the  wonderful  ways  of  woman,  he  told 
himself  that  this  was  impossible.  A  cynic  would 
have  pointed  out  that  Mary  had  now  had  se\aral  days 
in  which  to  change  her  mind.  Cynics  are  persons 
who  make  themselves  the  measure  of  other  people. 

The  philosopher  who  remarked  that  the  obvious 
truths  are  those  which  are  most  often  missed,  was 
probably  referring  to  the  time  it  takes  a  man  to  dis¬ 
cover  that  he  is  in  love.  Women  are  quicker  because 
they  are  on  the  outlook.  It  took  Rob  two  days,  and 
when  it  came  upon  him  checked  his  breathing.  After 
that  he  bore  it  like  a  man.  Another  discovery  he 
had  to  make  was  that,  after  all,  he  was  nobody  in 
particular.  This  took  him  longer. 

Although  the  manner  of  his  going  to  London  was 
unexpected,  Rob  had  thought  out  solidly  the  incljice- 
ments  to  go.  Ten  minutes  or  so  after  he  knew  that 
he  wanted  to  marry  Mary  Abinger,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  try  to  do  it.  The  only  obstacles  he  saw  in  his 
way  were  that  she  was  not  in  love  with  him,  and 
the  lack  of  income.  Feeling  that  he  was  an  uncom¬ 
mon  type  of  man  (if  people  would  only  see  it)  he  re¬ 
solved  to  remove  this  second  difficulty  first.  The 
saw-mill  and  the  castle  side  by  side  did  not  rise  up 
and  frighten  him,  and  for  the  time  he  succeeded  in 
not  thinking  about  Colonel  Abinger.  Nothing  is  hope¬ 
less  if  we  want  it  very  much. 

Rob  calculated  that  if  he  remained  on  the  Mirror 


134 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


for  another  dozen  years  or  so,  and  Mr.  Licquorish 
continued  to  think  that  it  would  not  he  cheaper  to  do 
without  him,  he  might  reach  a  salary  of  £200  per 
annum.  As  that  was  not  sufficient,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  leave  Silchester. 

There  was  only  one  place  to  go  to.  Rob  thought 
of  London  until  he  felt  that  it  was  the  guardian  from 
whom  he  would  have  to  ask  Mary  Abinger ;  he  pict¬ 
ured  her  there  during  the  season,  until  London, 
which  he  had  never  seen,  began  to  assume  a  homely 
aspect.  It  was  the  place  in  which  he  was  to  win  or 
lose  his  battle.  To  whom  is  London  much  more? 
It  is  the  clergyman’s  name  for  his  church,  the  law¬ 
yer’s  for  his  office,  the  politician’s  for  St.  Stephen’s, 
the  cabman’s  for  his  stand. 

There  was  not  a  man  on  the  press  in  Silchester 
who  did  not  hunger  for  Fleet  Street,  but  they  were 
all  afraid  to  beard  it.  They  knew  it  as  a  rabbit 
warren  ;  as  the  closest  street  in  a  city,  where  the  boot- 
black  has  his  sycophants,  and  you  have  to  battle  for 
exclusive  right  to  sweep  a  crossing.  The  fight  for¬ 
ward  had  been  grimmer  to  Rob,  however,  than  to  his 
fellows,  and  he  had  never  been  quite  beaten.  He 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  poverty  was  like  an  old 
friend.  There  was  only  one  journalist  in  London 
whom  he  knew  even  by  name,  and  he  wrote  to  him 
for  advice.  This  was  Mr.  John  Rorrison,  a  son  of 
the  minister  whose  assistance  had  brought  Rob  to 
Silchester.  Rorrison  was  understood  to  be  practically 


s 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


135 


editing  a  great  London  newspaper,  which  is  what  is 
understood  of  a  great  many  journalists  until  you 
make  inquiries,  but  he  wrote  back  to  Rob,  asking  him 
why  he  wanted  to  die  before  his  time.  You  collect¬ 
ors  who  want  an  editor’s  autograph  may  rely  upon 
having  it  by  return  of  post  if  you  write  threatening 
to  come  to  London  with  the  hope  that  he  will  do 
something  for  you.  Rorrison’s  answer  discomfited 
Rob  for  five  minutes,  and  then  going  out  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Mary  Abinger  in  the  Merediths’  car¬ 
riage.  He  tore  up  the  letter,  and  saw  that  London 
was  worth  risking. 

One  forenoon  Rob  set  out  for  the  office  to  tell  Mr. 
Licquorish  of  his  determination.  He  knew  that  the 
entire  staff  would  think  him  demented,  but  he  could 
not  see  that  he  was  acting  rashly.  He  had  worked 
it  all  out  in  his  mind,  and  even  tranquilly  faced  pos¬ 
sible  starvation.  Rob  was  congratulating  himself  on 
not  having  given  way  to  impulse  when  he  reached 
the  railway  station. 

His  way  from  his  lodgings  to  the  office  led  past 
the  station,  and,  as  he  had  done  scores  of  times  before, 
he  went  inside.  To  Rob  all  the  romance  of  Silchester 
was  concentrated  there  ;  nothing  stirred  him  so  much 
as  a  panting  engine;  the  shunting  of  carriages,  the 
bustle  of  passengers,  the  porters  rattling  to  and  fro 
with  luggage,  the  trains  twisting  serpent-like  into  the 
station  and  stealing  out  in  a  glory  to  be  gone,  sent  the 
blood  to  his  head.  On  Saturday  nights,  when  he  was 


136 


WHEN  A  MAN’S  SINGLE. 


free,  any  one  calling  at  the  station  would  have  been 
sure  to  find  him  on  the  platform  from  which  the  train 
starts  for  London.  His  heart  had  sunk  every  time 
it  went  off  without  him. 

Bob  woke  up  from  a  dream  of  Fleet  Street  to  see  the 
porters  slamming  the  doors  of  the  London  train.  He 
saw  the  guard’s  hand  upraised,  and  heard  the  carriages 
rattle  as  the  restive  engine  took  them  unawares. 
Then  came  the  warning  whistle,  and  the  train  moved 
off.  For  a  second  of  time  Rob  felt  that  he  had  lost 
London,  and  he  started  forward.  Some  one  near  him 
shouted,  and  then  he  came  upon  the  train  all  at  once,  a 
door  opened  and  he  shot  in.  When  he  came  to  himself, 
Silchester  was  a  cloud  climbing  to  the  sky  behind  him, 
and  he  was  on  his  way  to  London. 

BoVs  first  feeling  was  that  the  other  people  in  the 
carriage  must  know  what  he  had  done.  He  was  re¬ 
lieved  to  find  that  his  companions  were  only  an  old 
gentleman  who  spoke  fiercely  to  his  newspaper  be¬ 
cause  it  was  reluctant  to  turn  inside  out,  a  little  girl 
who  had  got  in  at  Silchester  and  consumed  thirteen 
halfpenny  buns  before  she  was  five  miles  distant 
from  it,  and  a  young  woman,  evidently  a  nurse,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms.  The  baby  was  noisy  for  a  time, 
but  Rob  gave  it  a  look  that  kept  it  silent  for  the  rest 
of  the  journey.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  get 
out  at  the  first  station,  but  when  the  train  stopped  at 
it  he  sat  on.  He  twisted  himself  into  a  corner  to 
count  his  money  covertly,  and  found  that  it  came  to 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


137 


four  pounds  odd.  He  also  took  the  Christmas  card  from 
his  pocket,  hut  replaced  it  hastily,  feeling  that  the  old 
gentleman  and  the  little  girl  were  looking  at  him.  A 
feeling  of  elation  grew  upon  him  as  he  saw  that  what¬ 
ever  might  happen  afterwards  he  must  he  in  London 
shortly,  and  his  mind  ran  on  the  letters  he  would  write 
to  Mr.  Licquorish  and  his  landlady.  In  lieu  of  his 
ticket  he  handed  over  twelve  shillings  to  the  guard, 
under  whose  eyes  he  did  not  feel  comfortable,  and  he 
calculated  that  he  owed  his  landlady  over  two  pounds. 
He  would  send  it  to  her  and  ask  her  to  forward  his 
things  to  London.  Mr.  Licquorish,  however,  might 
threaten  him  with  the  law  if  he  did  not  return.  But 
then  the  Mirror  owed  Rob  several  pounds  at  that  mo¬ 
ment,  and  if  he  did  not  claim  it  in  person  it  would  re¬ 
main  in  Mr.  Licquorish’ s  pocket.  There  was  no  saying 
how  far  that  consideration  would  affect  the  editor. 
Rob  saw  a  charge  of  dishonesty  rise  up  and  confront 
him,  and  he  drew  hack  from  it.  A  moment  afterwards 
he  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  it  receded.  He  took  his 
pipe  from  his  pocket. 

“  This  is  not  a  smoking-carriage,”  gasped  the  little 
girl,  so  promptly  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  she  had 
been  waiting  her  opportunity  ever  since  the  train  start¬ 
ed.  Rob  looked  at  her.  She  seemed  about  eight,  hut 
her  eye  was  merciless.  He  thrust  his  pipe  hack  into  its 
case,  feeling  cowed  at  last. 

The  nurse,  who  had  been  looking  at  Rob  and  blush¬ 
ing  when  she  caught  his  eye,  got  out  with  her  charge 


138 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


at  a  side  station,  and  he  helped  her  rather  awkwardly 
to  alight.  “  Don’t  mention  it,”  he  said,  in  answer  to 
her  thanks. 

“Not  a  word;  I’m  not  that  kind,”  she  replied,  so 
eagerly  that  he  started  back  in  alarm,  to  find  the  little 
girl  looking  suspiciously  at  him. 

As  Rob  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  King’s  Cross  he 
realized  sharply  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world.  He 
did  not  know  where  to  go  now,  and  his  heart  sank  for 
a  time  as  he  paced  the  platform  irresolutely,  feeling 
that  it  was  his  last  link  to  Silchester.  He  turned  into 
the  booking-office  to  consult  a  time-table,  and  noticed 
against  the  wall  a  railway  map  of  London.  For  a  long 
time  he  stood  looking  at  it,  and  as  he  traced  the  river, 
the  streets  familiar  to  him  by  name,  the  districts  and 
buildings  which  were  household  words  to  him,  he  felt 
that  he  must  live  in  London  somehow.  He  discovered 
Fleet  Street  in  the  map,  and  studied  the  best  way  of 
getting  to  it  from  King’s  Cross.  Then  grasping  his 
stick  firmly,  he  took  possession  of  London  as  calmly  as 
he  could. 

Rob  never  found  any  difficulty  afterwards  in  pick¬ 
ing  out  the  shabby  eating-house  in  which  he  had 
his  first  meal  in  London.  Gray’s  Inn  Road  re¬ 
mained  to  him  always  its  most  romantic  street  be¬ 
cause  he  went  down  it  first.  He  walked  into  the  roar  of 
London  in  Holborn,  and  never  forgot  the  alley  into 
which  he  retreated  to  discover  if  he  had  suddenly  be¬ 
come  deaf.  He  wondered  when  the  crowd  would  pass, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


139 


Years  afterward  he  turned  into  Fetter  Lane,  and  sud¬ 
denly  there  came  hack  to  his  mind  the  thought  that 
had  held  him  as  he  went  down  it  the  day  he  arrived  in 
London. 

A  certain  awe  came  upon  Kob  as  he  went  down 
Fleet  Street  on  the  one  side,  and  up  it  on  the  other. 
He  could  not  resist  looking  into  the  faces  of  the  per¬ 
sons  who  passed  him,  and  wondering  if  they  edited  the 
Times.  The  lean  man  who  was  in  such  a  hurry  that 
wherever  he  had  to  go  he  would  soon  he  there,  might 
be  a  man  of  letters  whom  Rob  knew  by  heart,  but  per¬ 
haps  he  was  only  a  broken  journalist  with  his  eye  on 
half  a  crown.  The  mild-looking  man  whom  Rob 
smiled  at  because,  when  he  was  half-way  across  the 
street,  he  lost  his  head  and  was  chased  out  of  sight  by 
half  a  dozen  hansom  cabs,  was  a  war  correspondent 
who  had  been  so  long  in  Africa  that  the  perils  of  a 
London  crossing  unmanned  him.  The  youth  who  was 
on  his  way  home  with  a  pork-chop  in  his  pocket  edited 
a  society  journal.  Rob  did  not  recognize  a  distin¬ 
guished  poet  in  a  little  stout  man  who  was  looking 
pensively  at  a  barrowful  of  walnuts,  and  he  was  mis¬ 
taken  in  thinking  that  the  bearded  gentleman  who  held 
his  head  so  high  must  be  somebody  in  particular. 
Rob  observed  a  pale  young  man  gazing  wistfully  at 
him,  and  wondered  if  he  was  a  thief  or  a  sub-editor. 
He  was  merely  an  aspirant  who  had  come  to  London 
that  morning  to  make  his  fortune,  and  he  took  Rob 
for  a  leader-writer  at  the  least.  The  offices,  however, 


140 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


and  even  the  public  buildings,  the  shops,  the  narrow¬ 
ness  of  the  streets,  all  disappointed  Rob.  The  houses 
seemed  squeezed  together  for  economy  of  space,  like  a 
closed  concertina.  Nothing  quite  fulfilled  his  expecta¬ 
tions  but  the  big  letter-holes  in  the  district  postal 
offices.  He  had  not  been  sufficiently  long  in  London 
to  feel  its  greatest  charm,  which  has  been  expressed  in 
many  ways  by  poet,  wit,  business  man  and  philosopher, 
but  comes  to  this,  that  it  is  the  only  city  in  the  world 
in  whose  streets  you  can  eat  penny  buns  without 
people’s  turning  round  to  look  at  you. 

In  a  few  days  Rob  was  a  part  of  London.  His 
Silchester  landlady  had  forwarded  him  his  things, 
and  Mr.  Licquorish  had  washed  his  hands  of  him. 
The  editor  of  the  Mirror’s  letter  amounted  to  a 
lament  that  a  man  whom  he  had  allowed  to  do  two 
men’s  work  for  half  a  man’s  wages  should  have 
treated  him  thus.  Mr.  Licquorish,  however,  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  “  forcing  ”  John  Milton,  and  so 
saving  a  reporter,  and  he  did  not  insist  on  Rob’s  re¬ 
turning.  He  expressed  a  hope  that  his  ex-reporter 
would  do  well  in  London,  and  a  fear,  amounting  to 
a  conviction,  that  he  would  not.  But  he  sent  the  three 
pounds  due  to  him  in  wages,  pointing  out,  justifi¬ 
ably  enough,  that,  strictly  speaking,  Rob  owed  him 
a  month’s  salary.  Rob  had  not  expected  such  lib¬ 
erality,  and  from  that  time  always  admitted  that 
there  must  have  been  a  heroic  vein  in  Mr.  Licquorish 
after  all. 


WHEN  A  MAN’S  SINGLE.  141 

Rob  established  himself  in  a  little  back  room  in  Is¬ 
lington,  so  small  that  a  fairly  truthful  journalist  might 
have  said  of  it,  in  an  article,  that  you  had  to  climb  the 
table  to  reach  the  fireplace,  and  to  lift  out  the  easy- 
chair  before  you  could  get  out  at  the  door.  The  room 
was  over  a  grocer’s  shop,  whose  window  bore  the  an¬ 
nouncement  :  “Eggs,  new  laid,  Is.  3d.;  eggs,  fresh, 
Is.  2d. ;  eggs,  warranted,  Is. ;  eggs,  lOd.”  A  shop  across 
the  way  hinted  at  the  reputation  of  the  neighborhood 
in  the  polite  placard,  “  Trust  in  the  Lord :  every  other 
person  cash.” 

The  only  ornament  Rob  added  to  the  room  was  the 
Christmas  card  in  a  frame.  He  placed  this  on  his 
mantelpiece  and  looked  at  it  frequently,  but  when  he 
heard  his  landlady  coming  he  slipped  it  back  into  his 
pocket.  Yet  he  would  have  liked  at  times  to  have  the 
courage  to  leave  it  there.  Though  he  wanted  to  be  a 
literary  man  he  began  his  career  in  London  with  a 
little  sense,  for  he  wrote  articles  to  editors  instead  of 
calling  at  the  offices,  and  he  had  the  good  fortune  to 
have  no  introductions.  The  only  pressman  who  ever 
made  anything  by  insisting  on  seeing  the  editor  was 
one — a  Scotsman,  no  doubt — who  got  him  alone  and 
threatened  to  break  his  head  if  he  did  not  find  an  open¬ 
ing  for  him.  The  editor  saw  that  this  was  the  sort 
of  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  on,  and 
yielded. 

During  his  first  month  in  London,  Rob  wrote  thirty 
articles,  and  took  them  to  the  different  offices  in  order 


142 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

to  save  the  postage.  There  were  many  other  men  in 
the  streets  at  night  doing  the  same  thing.  He  got  fif¬ 
teen  articles  hack  by  return  of  post,  and  never  saw 
the  others  again.  But  here  was  the  stuff  Rob  was 
made  of.  The  thirty  having  been  rejected,  he  dined 
on  bread-and-cheese,  and  began  the  thirty-first.  It 
was  accepted  by  the  Minotaur ,  a  weekly  paper.  Rob 
drew  a  sigh  of  exultation  as  he  got  his  first  proof  in 
London,  and  remembered  that  he  had  written  the 
article  in  two  hours.  The  payment,  he  understood, 
would  be  two  pounds  at  least,  and  at  the  rate  of  two 
articles  a  day,  working  six  days  a  week,  this  would 
mean  over  six  hundred  a  year.  Rob  had  another  look 
at  the  Christmas  card,  and  thought  it  smiled.  Every 
man  is  a  fool  now  and  then. 

Except  to  his  landlady,  who  thought  that  he  dined 
out,  Rob  had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  since  he  arrived  in 
London.  To  celebrate  his  first  proof  he  resolved  to 
call  on  Rorrison.  He  had  not  done  so  earlier  because 
he  thought  that  Rorrison  would  not  be  glad  to  see  him. 
Though  he  had  kept  his  disappointments  to  himself, 
however,  he  felt  that  he  must  remark  casually  to  some 
one  that  he  was  writing  for  the  Minotaur. 

Rorrison  had  chambers  at  the  top  of  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  as  he  had  sported  his  oak,  Rob 
ought  not  to  have  knocked.  He  knew  no  better,  how¬ 
ever,  and  Rorrison  came  grumbling  to  the  door.  He 
was  a  full-bodied  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  noticeably 
heavy  chin,  and  wore  a  long  dressing-gown. 


<r  * 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


143 


“  I’m  Angus  from  Silchester,”  Rob  explained. 

Rorrison’s  countenance  fell.  His  occupation  largely 
consisted  in  avoiding  literary  young  men,  who,  he 
knew,  were  thirsting  to  take  him  aside  and  ask  him  to 
get  them  sub-editorships. 

“  I’m  glad  to  see  you,”  he  said,  gloomily  ;  “  come 
in.” 

What  Rob  first  noticed  in  the  sitting-room  was 
that  it  was  all  in  shadow,  except  one  corner,  whose 
many  colors  dazzled  the  eye.  Suspended  over  this 
part  of  the  room  on  a  gas-bracket  was  a  great  Japa¬ 
nese  umbrella  without  a  handle.  This  formed  an 
awning  for  a  large  cane  chair  and  a  tobacco-table, 
which  also  held  a  lamp,  and  Rorrison  had  been  lolling 
on  a  chair  looking  at  a  Gladstone  bag  on  the  hearth¬ 
rug  until  he  felt  that  he  was  busy  packing. 

“  Mind  the  umbrella,”  he  said  to  his  visitor. 

The  next  moment  a  little  black  hole  that  had  been 
widening  in  the  Japanese  paper  just  above  the  lamp 
cracked  and  broke,  and  a  tongue  of  flame  swept  up  the 
umbrella.  Rob  sprang  forward  in  horror,  but  Rorri¬ 
son  only  sighed. 

“  That  makes  the  third  this  week,”  he  said,  “  but 
let  it  blaze.  I  used  to  think  they  would  set  the  place 
on  fire,  but  somehow  they  don’t  do  it.  Don’t  give  the 
thing  the  satisfaction  of  seeming  to  notice  it.” 

The  umbrella  had  been  frizzled  in  a  second,  and  its 
particles  were  already  trembling  through  the  room 
like  flakes  of  snow. 


144 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“You  have  just  been  in  time  to  find  me,”  Rorrison 
said ;  “  1  start  to-morrow  afternoon  for  Egypt  in  the 
special  correspondent  business.” 

“  I  envy  you,”  said  Rob,  and  then  told  the  manner 
of  his  coming  to  London. 

“  It  was  a  mad  thing  to  do,”  said  Rorrison,  looking 
at  him  not  without  approval,  u  but  the  best  journalists 
frequently  begin  in  that  way.  I  suppose  you  have 
been  besieging  the  newspaper  offices  since  you  arrived. 
Any  result  ?” 

“  I  had  a  proof  from  the  Minotaur  this  evening,” 
said  Rob. 

Rorrison  blew  some  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air  and 
ran  his  finger  through  them.  Then  he  turned  proudly 
to  Rob,  and  saw  that  Rob  was  looking  proudly  at 
him. 

“  Ah,  what  did  you  say  ?  ”  said  Rorrison. 

“The  Minotaur  has  accepted  one  of  my  things,” 
said  Rob. 

Rorrison  said  “  Hum,”  and  then  hesitated. 

“It  is  best  that  you  should  know  the  truth,”  he 
said  at  last.  “No  doubt  you  expect  to  be  paid  by 
the  Minotaur ,  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  little  hope  of 
that — unless  you  dun  them.  A  friend  of  mine  sent 
them  something  lately,  and  Roper  (the  editor,  you 
know)  wrote  asking  him  for  more.  He  sent  two  or 
three  other  things,  and  then  called  at  the  office, 
expecting  to  be  paid.” 

“  Was  he  not?” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  145 

“On  the  contrary,”  said  Rorrison,  “Roper  asked 
him  for  the  loan  of  five  pounds.” 

Rob’s  face  grew  so  long  that  even  the  hardened 
Rorrison  tried  to  feel  for  him. 

“You  need  not  let  an  experience  that  every  one 
has  to  pass  through  dishearten  you,”  he  said.  “  There 
are  only  about  a  dozen  papers  in  London  that  are 
worth  writing  for,  but  I  can  give  you  a  good  account 
of  them.  Not  only  do  they  pay  handsomely,  but  the 
majority  are  open  to  contributions  from  any  one. 
Don’t  you  believe  what  one  reads  about  newspaper 
rings.  Everything  sent  in  is  looked  at,  and  if  it  is 
suitable  any  editor  is  glad  to  have  it.  Men  fail  to  get 
a  footing  on  the  press  because — well,  as  a  rule,  because 
they  are  stupid.” 

“  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,”  said  Rob,  “  and 
yet  I  had  thirty  articles  rejected  before  the  Mino¬ 
taur  accepted  that  one.” 

“Yes,  and  you  will  have  another  thirty  rejected  if 
they  are  of  the  same  kind.  You  beginners  seem 
able  to  write  nothing  but  your  views  on  politics,  and 
your  reflections  on  art,  and  your  theories  of  life, 
which  you  sometimes  even  think  original.  Editors 
won’t  have  that,  because  their  readers  don’t  want  it. 
Every  paper  has  its  regular  staff  of  leader-writers,  and 
what  is  wanted  from  the  outside  is  freshness.  An 
editor  tosses  aside  your  column  and  a  half  about  evo¬ 
lution,  but  is  glad  to  have  a  paragraph  saying  that 

you  saw  Herbert  Spencer  the  day  before  yesterday 

10 


146 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


gazing  solemnly  for  ten  minutes  in  at  a  milliner’s 
window.  Fleet  Street  at  this  moment  is  simply  run¬ 
ning  with  men  who  want  to  air  their  views  about 
things  in  general.” 

“  I  suppose  so,”  said  Rob  dolefully. 

“Yes,  and  each  thinks  himself  as  original  as  he 
is  profound,  though  they  have  only  to  meet  to  dis¬ 
cover  that  they  repeat  each  other.  The  pity  of  it  is, 
that  all  of  them  could  get  on  to  some  extent  if  they 
would  send  in  what  is  wanted.  There  is  copy  in 
every  man  you  meet,  and,  as  a  journalist  on  this  stair 
says,  when  you  do  meet  him  you  feel  inclined  to  tear 
it  out  of  him  and  use  it  yourself.” 

“  What  sort  of  copy  ?  ”  asked  Rob. 

“They  should  write  of  the  things  they  have  seen. 
Newspaper  readers  have  an  insatiable  appetite  for 
knowing  how  that  part  of  the  world  lives  with  which 
they  are  not  familiar.  They  want  to  know  how  the 
Norwegians  cook  their  dinners  and  build  their  houses 
and  ask  each  other  in  marriage.” 

“  But  I  have  never  been  out  of  Britain.” 

“Neither  was  Shakespeare.  There  are  thousands 
of  articles  in  Scotland  yet.  You  must  know  a  good 
deal  about  the  Scottish  weavers — well,  there  are  arti¬ 
cles  in  them.  Describe  the  daily  life  of  a  gillie :  ‘  The 
Gillie  at  Home’  is  a  promising  title.  Were  you  ever 
snowed-up  in  your  saw-mill?  Whether  you  were 
or  not,  there  is  a  seasonable  subject  for  January. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  147 

‘Yule  in  a  Scottish  Village’  also  sounds  well,  and 
there  is  a  safe  article  in  a  Highland  gathering.” 

“  These  must  have  been  done  before,  though,”  saitf 
Kob. 

“  Of  course  they  have,”  answered  Rorrison ;  “  but 
do  them  in  your  own  way :  the  public  has  no  mem¬ 
ory,  and  besides,  new  publics  are  always  spring¬ 
ing  up.” 

“  I  am  glad  I  came  to  see  you,”  said  Rob,  brighten¬ 
ing  considerably ;  “  I  never  thought  of  these  things.” 

“  Of  course  you  need  not  confine  yourself  to  them. 
Write  on  politics  if  you  will,  but  don’t  merely  say 
what  you  yourself  think;  rather  tell,  for  instance, 
what  is  the  political  situation  in  the  country  parts 
known  to  you.  That  should  be  more  interesting  and 
valuable  than  your  individual  views.  But  I  may  tell 
you  that,  if  you  have  the  journalistic  faculty,  you 
will  always  be  on  the  lookout  for  possible  articles. 
The  man  on  this  stair  I  have  mentioned  to  you  would 
have  had  an  article  out  of  you  before  he  had  talked 
with  you  as  long  as  I  have  done.  You  must  have 
heard  of  Noble  Simms  ?” 

“Yes,  I  know  his  novel,”  said  Rob;  “I  should  like 
immensely  to  meet  him.” 

“I  must  leave  you  an  introduction  to  him,”  said 
Rorrison;  “he  wakens  most  people  up,  though  you 
would  scarcely  think  it  to  look  at  him.  You  see  this 
pipe  here  ?  Simms  saw  me  mending  it  with  sealing- 
wax  one  day,  and  two  days  afterward  there  was  an 


148 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE, 


article  about  it  in  the  Scalping  Knife.  When  1 
went  off  for  my  holidays  last  summer  I  asked  him  to 
look  in  here  occasionally  and  turn  a  new  cheese  which 
had  been  sent  me  from  the  country.  Of  course  he 
forgot  to  do  it,  but  I  denounced  him  on  my  return  for 
not  keeping  his  solemn  promise,  so  he  revenged  him¬ 
self  by  publishing  an  article  entitled  ‘  Rorrison’s  Oil- 
Painting.’  In  this  it  was  explained  that  just  before 
Rorrison  went  off  for  a  holiday  he  got  a  present  of  an 
oil-painting.  Remembering  when  he  had  got  to  Paris 
that  the  painting,  which  had  come  to  him  wet  from 
the  easel,  had  been  left  lying  on  his  table,  he  tele¬ 
graphed  to  the  writer  to  have  it  put  away  out  of  reach 
of  dust  and  the  cat.  The  writer  promised  to  do  so, 
but  when  Rorrison  returned  he  found  the  picture 
lying  just  where  he  left  it.  He  rushed  off  to  his 
friend’s  room  to  upbraid  him,  and  did  it  so  effectually 
that  the  friend  says  in  his  article:  ‘I  will  never  do  a 
good  turn  for  Rorrison  again !  ’  ” 

“  But  why,”  asked  Rob,  “  did  he  turn  the  cheese 
into  an  oil-painting  ?  ” 

“Ah,  there  you  have  the  journalistic  instinct  again. 
You  see  a  cheese  is  too  plebeian  a  thing  to  form  the 
subject  of  an  article  in  the  Scalpmg  Knife ,  so  Simms 
made  a  painting  of  it.  He  has  had  my  Chinese  um¬ 
brella  from  several  points  of  view  in  three  different 
papers.  When  I  play  on  his  piano  I  put  scraps  of 
paper  on  the  notes  to  guide  me,  and  he  made  his 
three  guineas  out  of  that.  Once  I  challenged  him  to 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


149 


write  an  article  on  a  straw  that  was  sticking  to  the 
sill  of  my  window,  and  it  was  one  of  the  most  inter¬ 
esting  things  he  ever  did.  Then  there  was  the  box 
of  old  clothes  and  other  odds  and  ends  that  he  prom¬ 
ised  to  store  for  me  when  I  changed  my  rooms.  He 
sold  the  lot  to  a  hawker  for  a  pair  of  flower-pots,  and 
wrote  an  article  on  the  transaction.  Subsequently 
he  had  another  article  on  the  flower-pots ;  and  when 
I  appeared  to  claim  my  belongings  he  got  a  third 
article  out  of  that.” 

“  I  suppose  he  reads  a  great  deal  ?  ”  said  Rob. 

“  He  seldom  opens  a  book,”  answered  Rorrison ; 
“  indeed,  when  he  requires  to  consult  a  work  of  refer¬ 
ence  he  goes  to  the  Strand  and  does  his  reading  at  a 
bookstall.  I  don’t  think  he  was  ever  in  the  British 
Museum.” 

Rob  laughed. 

“  At  the  same  time,”  he  said,  “  I  don’t  think  Mr. 
Noble  Simms  could  get  any  copy  out  of  me.” 

Just  then  some  one  shuffled  into  the  passage,  and 
the  door  opened. 


s  «• 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ME.  NOBLE  SIMMS. 

The  new-comer  was  a  young  man  with  an  impas¬ 
sive  face  and  weary  eyes,  who,  as  he  slouched  in, 
described  a  parabola  in  the  air  with  one  of  his  feet, 
which  was  his  way  of  keeping  a  burned  slipper  on. 
Rorrison  introduced  him  to  Rob  as  Mr.  Noble  Simms, 
after  which  Simms  took  himself  into  a  corner  of  the 
room,  like  a  man  who  has  paid  for  his  seat  in  a  rail¬ 
way  compartment  and  refuses  to  be  drawn  into  con¬ 
versation.  He  would  have  been  a  handsome  man 
had  he  had  a  little  more  interest  in  himself. 

“  I  thought  you  told  me  you  were  going  out  to¬ 
night,”  said  Rorrison. 

“  I  meant  to  go,”  Simms  answered,  “but  when  I 
rang  for  my  boots  the  housekeeper  thought  I  asked 
for  water,  and  brought  it,  so,  rather  than  explain 
matters  to  her,  I  drank  the  water  and  remained  in¬ 
doors.” 

“I  read  your  book  lately,  Mr.  Simms,”  Rob  said 
after  he  had  helped  himself  to  tobacco  from  Simms’ 
pouch — “  Try  my  tobacco  ”  being  the  Press  form  of 
salutation. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


151 


“You  did  not  buy  the  second  volume,  did  you?” 
asked  Simms,  with  a  show  of  interest,  and  Rob  had  to 
admit  that  he  got  the  novel  from  a  library. 

“  Excuse  my  asking  you,”  Simms  continued,  in  his 
painfully  low  voice ;  “  I  had  a  special  reason.  You 
see  I  happened  to  know  that,  besides  what  went  to  the 
libraries,  there  were  in  all  six  copies  of  my  book  sold. 
My  admirer  bought  two,  and  I  myself  bought  three 
and  two-thirds,  so  that  only  one  volume  remains  to  be 
accounted  for.  I  like  to  think  that  the  purchaser  was 
a  lady.” 

“  But  how  did  it  come  about,”  inquired  Rob,  while 
Rorrison  smoked  on  imperturbably,  “  that  the  volumes 
were  on  sale  singly  ?  ” 

“  That  was  to  tempt  a  public,”  said  Simms  gravely, 
“  who  would  not  take  kindly  to  the  three  volumes 
together.  It  is  a  long  story,  though.” 

Here  he  paused,  as  if  anxious  to  escape  out  of  the 
conversation. 

“  No  blarney,  Simms,”  expostulated  Rorrison.  “  I 
forgot  to  tell  you,  Angus,  that  this  man  always  means 
(when  he  happens  to  have  a  meaning)  the  reverse  of 
what  he  says.” 

“  Don’t  mind  Rorrison,”  said  Simms  to  Rob.  “  it 
was  in  this  way  :  My  great  work  of  fiction  did  fairly 
well  at  the  libraries,  owing  to  a  mistake  Mudie  made 
about  the  name.  He  ordered  a  number  of  copies 
under  the  impression  that  the  book  was  by  the  popu¬ 
lar  novelist,  Simmons,  and  when  the  mistake  was 


152  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

found  out  lie  was  too  honorable  to  draw  back.  The 
surplus  copies,  however,  would  not  sell  at  all.  My 
publisher  offered  them  as  Saturday  evening  presents 
to  his  young  men,  but  they  always  left  them  on  their 
desks ;  so  next  he  tried  the  second-hand  book-shops, 
in  the  hope  that  people  from  the  country  would  buy 
the  three  volumes  because  they  looked  so  cheap  at 
two  shillings.  However,  even  the  label  ‘  Published  at 
81s.  6d.  :  offered  for  2s.,’  was  barren  of  results.  I  used 
to  stand  in  an  alley  near  one  of  these  book-shops,  and 
watch  the  people  handling  my  novel.” 

“  But  no  one  made  an  offer  for  it  ?  ” 

“Not  at  two  shillings,  but  when  it  came  down  to 
one-and-sixpence  an  elderly  man  with  spectacles  very 
nearly  bought  it.  lie  was  undecided  between  it  and 
a  Trigonometry,  but  in  the  end  he  went  off  with  the 
Trigonometry.  Then  a  young  lady  in  gray  and  pink 
seemed  interested  in  it.  I  watched  her  reading  the 
bit  about  Lord  John  entering  the  drawing-room  sud¬ 
denly  and  finding  Henry  on  his  knees,  and  once  I  dis¬ 
tinctly  saw  her  smile.” 

“  She  might  have  bought  the  novel  if  only  to  see  how 
it  ended.” 

“  Ah,  I  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  she  would 
have  done  so,  had  she  not  most  unfortunately,  in  her 
eagerness  to  learn  what  Henry  said  when  he  and 
Eleanor  went  into  the  conservatory,  knocked  a  row  of 
books  over  with  her  elbow.  That  frightened  her,  and 
she  took  to  flight.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


153 


“  Most  unfortunate,”  said  Rob  solemnly,  though 
he  was  already  beginning  to  understand  Simms — as 
Simms  was  on  the  surface. 

“  I  had  a  still  greater  disappointment,”  continued  the 
author,  “  a  few  days  afterward.  By  this  time  the 
book  was  marked  ‘Very  Amusing,  Is.,  worth  Is.  6d. ;  ’ 
and  when  I  saw  a  pale-looking  young  man,  who  had 
been  examining  it,  enter  the  shop,  I  thought  the 
novel  was  as  good  as  sold.  My  excitement  was  in¬ 
tense  when  a  shopman  came  out  for  the  three  volumes 
and  carried  them  inside,  but  I  was  puzzled  on  seeing 
the  young  gentleman  depart,  apparently  without  hav¬ 
ing  made  a  purchase.  Consider  my  feelings  when  the 
shopman  replaced  the  three  volumes  on  his  shelf  with 
the  new  label,  ‘  924  pp.  8d. ;  worth  Is.’  ” 

“  Surely  it  found  a  purchaser  now  ?  ” 

“  Alas !  no.  The  only  man  who  seemed  to  be  at¬ 
tracted  by  it  at  eiglitpence  turned  out  to  be  the  author 
of  ‘  John  Mordaunt’s  Christmas  Box  ’  (‘  Thrilling ! 
Published  at  6s. :  offered  at  Is.  3d.’),  who  was  hanging 
about  in  the  interests  of  his  own  work.” 

“  Did  it  come  down  to  ‘Sixpence,  worth  ninepence’?” 
“No;  when  I  returned  to  the  spot  next  day  I  found 
volumes  one  and  three  in  the  ‘  2d.  any  vol.’  box,  and 
I  carried  them  away  myself.  What  became  of  vol¬ 
ume  two  I  have  never  been  able  do  discover.  -I  rum¬ 
maged  the  box  for  it  in  vain.” 

“  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Angus,”  remarked  Rorrison, 
“  the  novel  is  now  in  its  third  edition.” 


154 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  I  always  understood  that  it  had  done  well,”  said 
Rob. 

“  The  fourth  time  I  asked  for  it  at  Mudie’s,”  said 
Simms,  the  latter  half  of  whose  sentences  were  some- 
times  scarcely  audible,  “  I  inquired  how  it  was  doing, 
and  was  told  that  it  had  been  already  asked  for  three 
times.  Curiously  enough  there  is  a  general  impres¬ 
sion  that  it  has  been  a  great  success,  and  for  that  I 
have  to  thank  one  man.” 

“  The  admirer  of  whom  you  spoke  ?  ” 

“Yes,  my  admirer,  as  I  love  to  call  him.  I  first 
heard  of  him  as  a  business  gentleman  living  at  Shep¬ 
herd’s  Bush,  who  spoke  with  rapture  of  my  novel  to 
any  chance  acquaintances  he  made  on  the  tops  of 
’buses.  Then  my  aunt  told  me  that  a  young  lady 
knew  a  stout  man  living  at  Shepherd’s  Bush  who 
could  talk  of  nothing  but  my  book  ;  and  on  inquiry  at 
my  publisher’s  I  learned  that  a  gentleman  answering 
to  this  description  had  bought  two  copies.  I  heard 
of  my  admirer  from  different  quarters  for  the  next 
month,  until  a  great  longing  rose  in  me  to  see 
him,  to  clasp  his  hand,  to  ask  what  part  of  the  book 
he  liked  best — at  the  least  to  walk  up  and  down 
past  his  windows,  feeling  that  two  men  who  appre¬ 
ciated  each  other  were  only  separated  by  a  pane  of 
glass.” 

“  Did  you  ever  discover  who  he  was  ?  ” 

“I  did.  He  lives  at  42  Lavender  Crescent,  Shep' 
herd’s  Bush,  and  his  name  is  Henry  Gilding.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


155 


“Well?”  said  Rob,  seeing  Simms  pause,  as  if  this 
was  all.  - 

“  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Angus,”  the  author  murmured  in 
reply,  “  that  you  did  not  read  the  powerful  and  har¬ 
rowing  tale  very  carefully,  or  you  would  remember 
that  my  hero’s  name  was  also  Henry  Gilding.” 

“  Well,  but  what  of  that  ?  ” 

“  There  is  everything  in  that.  It  is  what  made  the 
Shepherd’s  Bush  gentleman  my  admirer  for  life.  He 
considers  it  the  strangest  and  most  diverting  thing  in 
his  experience,  and  every  night,  I  believe,  after  dinner, 
his  eldest  daughter  has  to  read  out  to  him  the  pas¬ 
sages  in  ^hich  the  Henry  Gildings  are  thickest.  He 
chuckles  over  the  extraordinary  coincidence  still.  He 
could  take  that  joke  with  him  to  the  seaside  for 
a  month,  and  it  would  keep  him  in  humor  all  the 
time.” 

“  Have  done,  Simms,  have  done,”  said  Rorrison  ; 
“  Angus  is  one  of  us,  or  wants  to  be,  at  all  events. 
The  Minotaur  is  printing  one  of  his  things,  and  I  have 
been  giving  him  some  sage  advice.” 

“Any  man,”  said  Simms,  “will  do  well  on  the 
Press  if  he  is  stupid  enough ;  even  Rorrison  has  done 
well.” 

“  I  have  just  been  telling  him,”  responded  Rorrison, 
“  that  the  stupid  men  fail.” 

“I  don’t  consider  you  a  failure,  Rorrison,”  said 
Simms,  in  mild  surprise.  “  What  stock  in  trade  a 
literary  hand  requires,  Mr.  Angus,  is  a  fire  to  dry  his 


156 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


writing  at,  jam  or  honey  with  which  to  gum  old 
stamps  on  to  envelopes,  and  an  antimacassar.” 

“  An  antimacassar  ?  ”  Rob  repeated. 

“Yes;  you  pluck  the  thread  with  which  to  sew 
your  copy  together  out  of  the  antimacassar.  When 
my  antimacassars  are  at  the  wash  I  have  to  have  a 
holiday.” 

“Well,  well,  Simms,”  said  Rorrison,  “I  like  you 
best  when  you  are  taciturn.” 

“  So  do  I,”  said  Simms. 

“You  might  give  Angus  some  advice  about  the 
likeliest  paper  for  which  to  write.  London  is  new  to 
him.” 

“  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Angus,”  said  Simms,  more  serious¬ 
ly,  “  that  advice  in  such  a  matter  is  merely  talk  thrown 
away.  If  you  have  the  journalistic  instinct,  which 
includes  a  determination  not  to  be  beaten  as  well  as  an 
aptitude  for  selecting  the  proper  subjects,  you  will  by 
and  by  find  kn  editor  who  believes  in  you.  Many 
men  of  genuine  literary  ability  have  failed  on  the 
Press  because  they  did  not  have  that  instinct,  and  they 

i  x 

have  attacked  journalism  in  their  books  in  conse¬ 
quence.” 

“  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  what  the  journalistic 
instinct  precisely  is,”  Rob  said,  “  and  still  less  whether 
I  possess  it.” 

“Ah,  just  let  me  put  you  through  your  paces,” 
replied  Simms.  “  Suppose  yourself  up  for  an  exam, 
in  journalism,  and  that  I  am  your  examiner.  Ques- 


When  a  man's  single. 


157 


tion  One :  4  The  house  was  soon  on  fire ;  much  sym¬ 
pathy  is  expressed  with  the  sufferers.’  Can  you  trans¬ 
late  that  into  newspaper  English  ?  ” 

“  Let  me  see,”  answered  Rob,  entering  into  the  spirit 
of  the  examination.  “  How  would  this  do  :  4  In  a  mo¬ 
ment  the  edifice  was  enveloped  in  shooting  tongues  of 
flame ;  the  appalling  catastrophe  has  plunged  the  whole 
street  into  the  gloom  of  night  ’  ?  ” 

“  Good.  Question  Two :  A  man  hangs  himself ;  what 
is  the  technical  heading  for  this  ?  ” 

“  Either  4  Shocking  Occurrence  ’  or  4  Rash  Act.’  ” 

44  Question  Three  :  4  Pabulum ,’  4  Cela  va  sans  dire ,’ 
4  Par  excellence ,’  4  Ne plus  ultra .’  What  are  these  ?  Are 
there  any  more  of  them  ?  ” 

44  They  are  scholarship,”  replied  Rob, 44  and  there  are 
two  more,  namely,  4  tour  de  force  ’  and  4  terra  firma ” 

44  Question  Four :  A.  (a  soldier)  dies  at  6  p.  m.  with 
his  hack  to  the  foe.  B.  (a  philanthropist)  dies  at  1  a.  m.  : 
which  of  these,  speaking  technically,  would  you  call  a 
creditable  death  ?  ” 

44  The  soldier’s,  because  time  was  given  to  set  it.” 

44  Quite  right.  Question  Five :  Have  you  ever  known 
a  newspaper  which  did  not  have  the  largest  circulation 
in  its  district,  and  was  not  the  most  influential  adver¬ 
tising  medium  ?  ” 

44  Never.” 

44  Question  Six :  Mr.  Gladstone  rises  to  speak  in  the 
House  of  Commons  at  2  a.  m.  What  would  be  the 
sub-editor’s  probable  remark  on  receiving  the  opening 


158 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


words  of  the  speech,  and  how  would  he  break  the 
news  to  the  editor  ?  How  would  the  editor  be  likely 
to  take  it?” 

“  I  prefer,”  said  Rob,  “  not  to  answer  that  question.” 

“Well,  Mr.  Angus,”  said  Simms,  tiring  of  the  exam¬ 
ination,  “  you  have  passed  with  honors.” 

The  conversation  turned  to  Rorrison’s  coming  work 
in  Egypt,  and  by  and  by  Simms  rose  to  go. 

“  Your  stick,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Angus?”  he  said,  taking 
Rob’s  thick  staff  from  a  corner. 

“  Yes,”  answered  Rob,  “  it  has  only  a  heavy  knob, 
you  see,  for  a  handle,  and  a  doctor  once  told  me  that 
if  I  continued  to  press  so  heavily  on  it  I  might  suffer 
from  some  disease  in  the  palm  of  the  hand.” 

“  I  never  heard  of  that,”  said  Simms,  looking  up  for 
the  first  time  since  he  entered  the  room.  Then  he 
added,  “  You  should  get  a  stick  like  Rorrison’s.  It  has  a 
screw-handle  which  he  keeps  loose,  so  that  the  slight¬ 
est  touch  knocks  it  off.  It  is  called  the  compliment- 
stick,  because  if  Rorrison  is  in  the  company  of  ladies 
he  contrives  to  get  them  to  hold  it.  This  is  in  the 
hope  that  they  will  knock  the  handle  off,  when  Rorri¬ 
son  bows  and  remarks  exultingly  that  the  stick  is  like 
its  owner — when  it  came  near  them  it  lost  its  head. 
He  has  said  that  to  fifteen  ladies  now,  and  has  a  great 
reputation  for  gallantry  in  consequence.  Good-night.” 

“Well,  he  did  not  get  any  copy  out  of  me,”  said 
Rob. 

“  Simms  is  a  curious  fellow,”  Rorrison  answered. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


159 


“  Though  you  might  not  expect  it,  he  has  written 
some  of  the  most  pathetic  things  I  ever  read,  hut  lie- 
wears  his  heart  out  of  sight.  Despite  what  he  says, 
too,  he  is  very  jealous  for  the  Press’  good  name.  He 
seemed  to  take  to  you,  so  I  should  not  wonder  though 
he  were  to  look  you  up  here  some  night.” 

“  Here  ?  How  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  Why,  this.  I  shall  probably  he  away  from  London 
for  some  months,  and  as  I  must  keep  on  my  rooms,  I 
don’t  see  why  you  should  not  occupy  them.  The 
furniture  is  mine,  and  you  would  he  rent  free,  except 
that  the  housekeeper  expects  a  few  shillings  a  week 
for  looking  after  things.  What  do  you  think  ?” 

Rob  could  have  only  one  thought  as  he  compared 
these  comfortable  chambers  to  his  own  bare  room,  and 
as  Rorrison,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  a  warm  liking 
to  him,  pressed  the  point,  arguing  that  as  the  rent 
must  be  paid  at  any  rate  the  chambers  were  better  oc¬ 
cupied,  he  at  last  consented  on  the  understanding  that 
they  could  come  to  some  arrangement  on  Rorrison’s 
return. 

“It  will  please  my  father,  too,”  Rorrison  added, 
“  to  know  that  you  are  here.  I  always  remember  that 
had  it  not  been  for  him  you  might  never  have  gone  on 
to  the  Press.” 

They  sat  so  late  talking  this  matter  over  that  Rob 
eventually  stayed  all  night,  Rorrison  having  in  his 
bedroom  a  couch  which  many  journalists  had  slept 

on. 


160 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Next  morning  the  paper  whose  nickname  is  the 
Scalping  Knife  was  served  up  with  breakfast,  and 
the  first  thing  Rob  saw  in  it  was  a  leaderette  about  a 
disease  generated  in  the  palm  of  the  hand  by  walking- 
sticks  with  heavy  knobs  for  handles. 

“  T  told  you,”  said  Rorrison,  “  that  Simms  would 
make  his  half-guinea  out  of  you.” 

When  Rorrison  went  down  to  Simms’  chambers 
later  in  the  day,  however,  to  say  that  he  was  leaving 
Rob  tenant  of  his  rooms,  he  was  laughing  at  some¬ 
thing  else. 

“All  during  breakfast,”  he  said  to  Simms,  “I  no¬ 
ticed  that  Angus  was  preoccupied,  and  anxious  to  say 
something  that  he  did  not  like  to  say.  At  last  he 
blurted  it  out,  with  a  white  face,  and  what  do  you  think 
it  was?” 

Simms  shook  his  head. 

“Well,”  said  Rorrison,  “it  was  this.  He  has  been 
accustomed  to  go  down  on  his  knees  every  night  to  say 
his  prayers,  as  we  used  to  do  at  school,  but  when  he 
saw  that  I  did  not  do  it  he  did  not  like  to  do  it  either. 
I  believe  it  troubled  him  all  night,  for  he  looked  hag¬ 
gard  when  he  rose.” 

“  He  told  you  this  ?  ” 

“Yes;  he  said  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,”  said 
Rorrison,  smiling.  “  You  must  remember  he  is  country- 
bred.” 

“You  are  a  good  fellow,  Rorrison,”  said  Simms 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  161 

gravely,  “  to  put  him  into  your  rooms,  but  I  don’t  see 
what  you  are  laughing  at.” 

“  Why,”  said  Rorrison,  taken  aback,  “  I  thought  you 
would  see  it  in  the  same  light.” 

“  Not  I,”  said  Simms  ;  “  but  let  me  tell  you  this,  I 
shall  do  what  I  can  for  him.  I  like  your  Angus.” 

11 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  WIGWAM. 

Rob  had  a  tussle  for  it,  but  he  managed  to  live 
down  his  first  winter  in  London,  and  May-day  saw  him 
sufficiently  prosperous  and  brazen  to  be  able  to  go  into 
restaurants  and  shout  out  “  Waiter.”  After  that 
nothing  frightened  him  but  barmaids. 

For  a  time  his  chief  struggle  had  been  with  his 
appetite,  which  tortured  him  when  he  went  out  in  the 
afternoons.  He  wanted  to  dine  out  of  a  paper  bag,  but 
his  legs  were  reluctant  to  carry  him  past  a  grill-room. 
At  last  a  compromise  was  agreed  upon.  If  he  got  a 
proof  over-night,  he  dined  in  state  next  day  ;  if  it  was 
only  his  manuscript  that  was  returned  to  him,  he 
thought  of  dining  later  in  the  week.  For  a  long  time 
his  appetite  had  the  worst  of  it.  It  was  then  that  he 
became  so  great  an  authority  on  penny  buns.  His 
striking  appearance  always  brought  the  saleswomen 
to  him  promptly,  and  sometimes  he  blushed,  and  often 
he  glared,  as  he  gave  his  order.  When  they  smiled 
he  changed  his  shop. 

There  was  one  terrible  month  when  he  wrote  from 
morning  to  night  and  did  not  make  sixpence.  He 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


163 


lived  by  selling  his  books,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time. 
Even  on  the  last  day  of  that  black  month  he  did  not 
despair.  When  he  wound  up  his  watch  at  night 
before  going  hungry  to  bed,  he  never  remembered 
that  it  could  be  pawned.  The  very  idea  of  entering 
a  pawnshop  never  struck  him.  Many  a  time  when 
his  rejected  articles  came  back  he  shook  his  fist  in 
imagination  at  all  the  editors  in  London,  and  saw 
himself  twisting  their  necks  one  by  one.  To  think 
of  a  different  death  for  each  of  them  exercised  his 
imagination  and  calmed  his  passion,  and  he  wondered 
whether  the  murder  of  an  editor  was  an  indictable 
offence.  When  he  did  not  have  ten  shillings,  “  I  will 
get  on,”  cried  Rob  to  himself.  “  I’m  not  going  to  be 
starved  out  of  a  big  town  like  this.  I’ll  make  my 
mark  yet.  Yes,”  he  roared,  while  the  housekeeper, 
at  the  other  side  of  the  door,  quaked  to  hear  him, 
“  I  will  get  on ;  I’m  not  going  to  be  beaten.”  He 
was  waving  his  arms  fiercely  when  the  housekeeper 
knocked.  “Come  in,”  said  Rob,  subsiding  meekly 
into  his  chair.  Before  company  he  seemed  to  be 
without  passion,  but  they  should  have  seen  him  when 
he  was  alone.  One  night  he  dreamed  that  he  saw  all 
the  editors  in  London  being  conveyed  (in  a  row)  to 
the  hospital  on  stretchers.  A  gratified  smile  lit  up 
his  face  as  he  slept,  and  his  arm,  going  out  suddenly 
to  tip  one  of  the  stretchers  over,  hit  against  a  chair. 
Rob  jumped  out  of  bed  and  kicked  the  chair  round 
the  room.  By  and  by,  when  his  articles  were  occa- 


164 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


sionally  used,  he  told  his  proofs  that  the  editors  were 
capital  felfbws. 

The  only  acquaintances  he  made  were  with  jour¬ 
nalists  who  came  to  his  chambers  to  see  Rorrison, 
who  was  now  in  India.  They  seemed  just  as  pleased 
to  see  Rob,  and  a  few  of  them,  who  spoke  largely 
of  their  connection  with  literature,  borrowed  five 
shillings  from  him.  To  his  disappointment  Noble 
Simms  did  not  call,  though  he  sometimes  sent  up 
notes  to  Rob,  suggesting  likely  articles,  and  the 
proper  paper  to  which  to  send  them.  “  I  would 
gladly  say  ‘Use  my  name,’”  Simms  wrote,  “but  it  is 
the  glory  of  anonymous  journalism  that  names  are 
nothing  and  good  stuff  everything.  I  assure  you 
that  on  the  Press  it  is  the  men  who  have  it  in  them 
that  succeed,  and  the  best  of  them  become  the  edi¬ 
tors.”  He  advised  Rob  to  go  to  the  annual  supper 
given  by  a  philanthropic  body  to  discharged  crimi¬ 
nals,  and  write  an  account  of  the  proceedings ;  and 
told  him  that  when  anything  remarkable  happened 
in  London  he  should  at  once  do  an  article  (in  the 
British  Museum)  on  the  time  the  same  thing  had 
happened  before.  “Don’t  neglect  eclipses,”  he  said, 
“  nor  heavy  scoring  at  cricket  matches  any  more  than 
what  look  like  signs  of  the  times,  and  always  try  to 
be  first  in  the  field.”  He  recommended  Rob  to 
gather  statistics  of  all  kinds,  from  the  number  of 
grandchildren  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe  had  to 
the  jockeys  who  had  ridden  the  Derby  winner  more 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


165 


than  once,  and  suggested  the  collecting  of  anecdotes 
about  celebrities,  which  everybody  would  want  to  read 
if  his  celebrities  chanced  to  die,  as  they  must  do  some 
day  ;  and  he  assured  him  that  there  was  a  public  who 
liked  to  be  told  every  year  what  the  poets  had  said 
about  May.  Rob  was  advised  never  to  let  a  historic 
house  disappear  from  London  without  compiling  an 
article  about  its  associations,  and  to  be  ready  to  run 
after  the  fire  brigade.  He  was  told  that  an  article  on 
flagstone  artists  could  be  made  interesting.  “But 
always  be  sure  of  your  facts,”  Simms  said.  “  Write 
your  articles  over  again  and  again,  avoid  fine  writing 
as  much  as  dishonest  writing,  and  never  spoil  a  leader¬ 
ette  by  drawing  it  out  into  a  leader.  By  and  by  you 
may  be  able  to  choose  the  kind  of  subject  that  interests 
yourself,  but  at  present  put  your  best  work  into  what 
experienced  editors  believe  interests  the  general 
public.” 

Rob  found  these  suggestions  valuable,  and  often 
thought,  as  he  passed  Simms’  door,  of  going  in  to  thank 
him,  but.  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  Simms 
did  not  want  him.  Of  course  Rob  was  wrong.  Simms 
had  feared  at  first  to  saddle  himself  with  a  man  that 
might  prove  incapable,  and,  besides,  he  generally  liked 
those  persons  best  whom  he  saw  least  frequently. 

For  the  great  part  of  the  spring  Simms  was  out  of 
town ;  but  one  day  after  his  return  he  met  Rob  on  the 
stair,  and  took  him  into  his  chambers.  The  sitting- 
room  had  been  originally  furnished  with  newspaper 


166 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


articles  ;  Simms,  in  his  younger  days,  when  he  wanted 
a  new  chair  or  an  etching,  having  written  an  article  to 
pay  for  it,  and  then  pasted  the  article  on  the  back.  lie 
had  paid  a  series  on  wild  birds  for  his  piano,  and  at  one 
time  leaderettes  had  even  been  found  in  the  inside  of 
his  hats.  Odd  hooks  and  magazines  lay  about  his 
table,  but  they  would  not  in  all  have  filled  a  library 
shelf ;  and  there  were  no  neAVspapers  visible.  The 
blank  Avail  opposite  the  fireplace  showed  in  dust  that  a 
large  picture  had  recently  hung  there.  It  was  an  oil- 
painting  which  a  month  earlier  had  given  way  in  the 
cord  and  fallen  behind  the  piano,  where  Simms  Avas 
letting  it  lie. 

“  I  wonder,”  said  Rob,  avIio  had  heard  from  many 
quarters  of  Simms’  reputation,  “  that  you  are  content 
to  put  your  best  work  into  newspapers.” 

“  Ah,”  ansAvered  Simms,  “  I  Avas  ambitious  once,  but, 
as  I  told  you,  the  grand  book  was  a  failure.  Nowa¬ 
days  I  gratify  myself  Avitli  the  reflection  that  I  am  not 
stupid  enough  ever  to  be  a  great  man.” 

“  I  Avish  you  would  begin  something  really  big,”  said 
Rob,  earnestly. 

“  I  feel  safer,”  replied  Simms,  “  finishing  something 
really  little.” 

He  turned  the  talk  to  Rob’s  affairs,  as  if  his  oavii 
wearied  him,  and,  after  hesitating,  offered  to  “  place  ” 
a  political  article  by  Rob  Avith  the  editor  of  the  Morn¬ 
ing  Wire. 

“  I  don’t  say  he'll  use  it,  though,”  he  added. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  167 

This  was  so  much  the  work  Rob  hungered  for  that 
he  could  have  run  upstairs  and  begun  it  at  once. 

“  Why,  you  surely  don’t  work  on  Saturday  nights?” 
said  his  host,  who  was  putting  on  an  overcoat. 

“Yes,”  said  Rob,  “there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  1 
know  no  one  well  enough  to  go  to  him.  Of  course  1 
do  nothing  on  the  Sab — I  mean  on  Sundays.” 

“  No  ?  Then  how  do  you  pass  your  Sundays  ?  ” 

“  I  go  to  church,  and  take  a  long  walk,  or  read.” 

“  And  you  never  break  this  principle — when  a  capital 
idea  for  an  article  strikes  you  on  Sunday  evening,  for 
instance  ?  ” 

“Well,”  said  Rob,  “when  that  happens  I  wait  until 
twelve  o’clock  strikes,  and  then  begin.” 

Perceiving  nothing  curious  in  this,  Rob  did  not  look 
up  to  see  Simms’  mouth  twitching. 

“  On  those  occasions,”  asked  Simms,  “  when  you  are 
waiting  for  twelve  o’clock,  does  the  evening  not  seem 
to  pass  very  slowly  ?  ” 

Then  Rob  blushed. 

“  At  all  events,  come  with  me  to-night,”  said  Simms, 
“  to  my  club.  I  am  going  now  to  the  Wigwam,  and 
we  may  meet  men  there  worth  your  knowing.” 

The  Wigwam  is  one  of  the  best-known  literary 
clubs  in  London,  and  as  they  rattled  to  it  in  a  han¬ 
som,  the  driver  of  which  was  the  broken  son  of  a 
peer,  Rob  remarked  that  its  fame  had  even  traveled 
to  his  saw- mill. 

“  It  has  such  a  name,”  said  Simms  in  reply,  “  that 


168 


WHEN  A  MAX'S  S1XGLE. 


I  feel  sorry  for  any  one  who  is  taken  for  the  first  time. 
The  best  way  to  admire  the  Wigwam  is  not  to  go  to 
it.” 

“  I  always  thought  it  was  considered  the  pleasantest 
club  in  London,”  Rob  said. 

“  So  it  is,”  said  Simms,  who  was  a  member  of  half  a 
dozen ;  “  most  of  the  others  are  only  meant  for  sitting 
in  on  padded  chairs  and  calling  out  ‘  sh-sh  ’  when  any 
other  body  speaks.” 

At  the  Wigwam  there  is  a  special  dinner  every 
Saturday  evening,  but  it  was  over  before  Simms  and 
Rob  arrived,  and  the  members  were  crowding  into  the 
room  where  great  poets  have  sat  beating  time  with 
churchwardens,  while  great  artists  or  coming  Cabinet 
ministers  sang  songs  that  were  not  of  the  drawing¬ 
room.  A  popular  novelist,  on  whom  Rob  gazed  witii 
a  veneration  that  did  not  spread  to  his  companion’s 
face,  was  in  the  chair  when  they  entered,  and  the  room 
was  full  of  literary  men,  actors,  and  artists,  of 
whom,  though  many  were  noted,  many  were  also 
needy.  Here  was  an  actor  who  had  separated  from 
his  wife  because  her  notices  were  better  than  his; 
and  another  gentleman  of  the  same  profession  took 
Rob  aside  to  say  that  he  was  the  greatest  tragedian 
on  earth  if  he  could  only  get  a  chance.  Rob  did  not 
know  what  to  reply  when  the  eminent  cartoonist  sit¬ 
ting  next  to  him,  whom  he  had  looked  up  to  for  half 
a  dozen  years,  told  him,  by  way  of  opening  a  conver¬ 
sation,  that  he  had  just  pawned  his  watch.  They 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


169 


seemed  so  pleased  with  poverty  that  they  made  as 
much  of  a  little  of  it  as  they  could,  and  the  wisest 
conclusion  Rob  came  to  that  night  was  not  to  take 
them  too  seriously.  It  was,  however,  a  novel  world 
to  find  one’s  self  in  all  of  a  sudden,  one  in  which  every 
body  was  a  wit  at  his  own  expense.  Even  Simms, 
who  always  upheld  the  Press  when  any  outsider  ran 
it  down,  sang  with  applause  some  verses  whose  point 
lay  in  their  being  directed  against  himself.  They 
began : 

When  clever  pressmen  write  this  way, 

“  As  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude  would  say,” 

Is  it  because  they  think  he  would, 

And  have  they  read  a  line  of  Froude  ? 

Or  is  it  only  that  they  fear 

The  comment  they  have  made  is  queer, 

And  that  they  either  must  erase  it, 

Or  say  it’ s  Mr.  Froude  who  says  it  ? 

Every  one  abandoned  himself  to  the  humor  of  the 
evening,  and  as  song  followed  song,  or  was  wedged 
between  entertainments  of  other  kinds,  the  room  filled 
with  smoke  until  it  resembled  London  in  a  fog. 

By  and  by  a  sallow-faced  man  mounted  a  table  to 
show  the  company  how  to  perform  a  remarkable  trick 
with  three  hats.  He  got  his  hats  from  the  company, 
and  having  looked  at  them  thoughtfully  for  some 
minutes,  said  that  he  had  forgotten  the  way. 

“That,”  said  Simms,  mentioning  a  we]] -known 

journalist,  “is  K -  lie  can  never  work  unless  his 

pockets  are  empty,  and  he  would  not  be  looking  so 


170 


WHEN  A  MAN’S  SINGLE. 


doleful  at  present  if  lie  was  not  pretty  well  off.  lie 
goes  from  room  to  room  in  the  house  he  lodges  in,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  state  of  Ills  finances,  and  when  you  call 
on  him  you  have  to  ask  at  the  door  which  floor  he  is 
on  to-day.  One  week  you  find  him  in  the  drawing¬ 
room,  the  next  in  the  garret.” 

A  stouter  and  brighter  man  followed  the  hat  enter¬ 
tainment  with  a  song,  which  he  said  was  considered 
by  some  of  his  friends  a  recitation. 

“  There  was  a  time,”  said  Simms,  who  was  held  a 
terrible  person  by  those  who  took  him  literally,  “  when 
that  was  the  saddest  man  I  knew.  He  was  so  sad 
that  the  doctors  feared  he  would  die  of  it.  It  all  came 
of  his  writing  for  Punch .” 

“  How  did  they  treat  him  ?  ”  Hob  asked. 

“  Oh,  they  quite  gave  him  up,  and  he  was  wasting 
away  visibly,  when  a  second-rate  provincial  journal 
appointed  him  its  London  correspondent,  and  saved 
his  life.” 

“  Then  he  was  sad,”  asked  Hob,  “  because  he  was 
out  of  work  ?  ” 

✓ 

“  On  the  contrary,”  said  Simms  gravely,  “  he  was 
always  one  of  'the  successful  men,  but  he  could  not 
laugh.” 

“  And  he  laughed  when  he  became  a  London 
correspondent  ?” 

“Yes;  that  restored  his  sense  of  humor.  But 
listen  to  this  song ;  he  is  a  countryman  of  yours  who 
sings  it.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


171 


* 


A  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  cut  out  of  a 

granite  block,  and  who  at  the  end  of  each  verse  thrust 

his  pipe  hack  into  his  mouth,  sang  in  a  broad  accent, 

that  made  Rob  want  to  go  nearer  him,  some  verses 

about  an  old  university : 

“  Take  off  tlie  stranger’s  hat!” — The  shout 
We  raised  in  fifty-nine 
Assails  my  ears,  with  careless  flout, 

And  now  the  hat  is  mine. 

It  seems  a  day  since  I  was  here, 

A  student  slim  and  hearty, 

And  see,  the  boys  around  me  cheer, 

“The  ancient  looking  party!  ” 

Rough  horseplay  did  not  pass  for  wit 
When  Rae  and  Mill  were  there; 

I  see  a  lad  from  Oxford  sit 
In  Blackie’s  famous  chair. 

And  Rae,  of  all  our  men  the  one 
We  most  admired  in  quad 
(I  had  this  years  ago),  has  gone 
Completely  to  the  bad. 

In  our  debates  the  moral  Mill 
Had  infinite  address, 

Alas!  since  then  lie’s  robbed  a  till, 

And  now  lie’s  on  the  Press. 

And  Tommy  Robb,  the  ploughman’s  son, 

Whom  all  his  fellows  slighted, 

From  Rae  and  Mill  the  prize  has  won, 

For  Tommy’s  to  be  knighted. 

A  lanky  loon  is  in  the  seat 
Filled  once  by  manse-bred  Sheen, 

Who  did  not  care  to  mix  with  Peate, 

A  bleacher  who  had  been. 

But  watch  the  whirligig  of  time, 

Brave  Peate  became  a  preacher, 

His  name  is  known  in  every  clime, 

And  Sheen  is  now  the  bleacher. 


172 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


McMillan,  who  the  medals  carried, 

Is  now  a  judge,  ’ tis  said, 

And  curly-lieaded  Smith  is  married, 

And  Williamson  is  dead. 

Old  Phil  and  I,  who  shared  our  hooks, 

Now  very  seldom  meet, 

And  when  we  do,  with  frowning  looks 
We  pass  by  in  the  street. 

The  college  rings  with  student  slang 
As  in  the  days  of  yore, 

The  self-same  notice  boards  still  hang 
Upon  the  class-room  door  : 

An  essay  (I  expected  that) 

On  Burns  this  week,  or  Locke, 

“  A  theory  of  creation  ”  at 
Precisely  seven  o’clock. 

There’ s  none  here  now  who  knows  my  name : 

My  place  is  far  away, 

And  yet  the  college  is  the  same, 

Not  older  by  a  day. 

But  curious-looks  are  cast  at  me, 

Ah!  herein  lies  the  change  : 

All  else  is  as  it  used  to  be, 

And  I  alone  am  strange! 

“  Now,  you  could  never  guess,”  Simms  said  to  Rob, 
“  what  profession  our  singer  belongs  to.” 

“  He  looks  more  like  a  writer  than  an  artist,”  said 

* 

Rob,  who  had  felt  the  song  more  than  the  singer  did. 

“  Well,  he  is  more  an  artist  than  a  writer,  though, 
strictly  speaking,  he  is  neither.  To  that  man  is  the 
honor  of  having  created  a  profession.  He  furnishes 
rooms  for  interviews.” 

“  I  don’t  quite  understand,”  said  Rob. 

“  It  is  in  this  way,”  Simms  explained.  “  Inter¬ 
views  in  this  country  are  of  recent  growth,  but 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


173 


it  has  been  already  discovered  that  what  the  pub¬ 
lic  want  to  read  is  not  so  much  a  celebrity’s  views 
on  any  topic  as  a  description  of  his  library,  his  dress¬ 
ing-gown,  or  his  gifts  from  the  king  of  Kashabalioo. 
Many  of  the  eminent  ones,  however,  are  very  un¬ 
interesting  in  private  life,  and  have  no  curiosities  to 
show  their  interviewer  worth  writing  about,  so  your 
countryman  has  started  a  profession  of  providing 
curiosities  suitable  for  celebrities  at  from  five  pounds 
upward,  each  article,  of  course,  having  a  guaran¬ 
teed  story  attached  to  it.  The  editor,  you  observe, 
intimates  his  wish  to  include  the  distinguished  per¬ 
son  in  his  galaxy  of  ‘  Men  of  the  Moment,’  and  then 
the  notability  drops  a  line  to  our  friend  saying  that  he 
wants  a  few  of  his  rooms  arranged  for  an  interview. 
Your  countryman  sends  the  goods,  arranges  them 
effectively,  and  puts  the  celebrity  up  to  the  remin¬ 
iscences  he  is  to  tell  about' each.” 

“  I  suppose,”  said  Rob,  with  a  light  in  his  eye,  “  that 
the  interviewer  is  as  much  taken  in  by  this  as — well, 
say,  as  I  have  been  by  you  ?  ” 

“  To  the  same  extent,”  admitted  Simms  solemnly. 
“Of  course  he  is  not  aware  that  before  the  inter¬ 
view  appears  the  interesting  relics  have  all  been 
packed  up  and  taken  back  to  our  Scottish  friend’s 
show-rooms.” 

The  distinguished  novelist  in  the  chair  told  Rob 
(without  having  been  introduced  to  him)  that  his 
books  were  beggaring  his  publishers. 


174 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Wliai  I  make  my  living  off,”  he  said,  “is  the 
penny  dreadful,' complete  in  one  number.  I  manu¬ 
facture  two  a  week  without  hindrance  to  other  em¬ 
ployment,  and  could  make  it  three  if  I  did  not  have 
a  weak  wrist.” 

It  was  thus  that  every  one  talked  to  Rob,  who,  be¬ 
cause  he  took  a  joke  without  changing  countenance, 
was  considered  obtuse.  He  congratulated  one  man  on 
his  article  on  chaffinches  in  the  Evening  Firebrand , 
and  the  writer  said  he  had  discovered,  since  the  paper 
appeared,  that  the  birds  he  described  were  really  lin¬ 
nets.  Another  man  was  introduced  to  Rob  as  the 
writer  of  “In  Memoriam.” 

“No,”  said  the  gentleman  himself,  on  seeing  Rob 
start,  “  my  name  is  not  Tennyson.  It  is,  indeed, 
Murphy.  Tennyson  and  the  other  fellows,  who  are 
ambitious  of  literary  fame,  pay  me  so  much  a  page 
for  poems  to  which  they  put  their  names.” 

At  this  point  the  applause  became  so  deafening 
that  Simms  and  Rob,  who  had  been  on  their  way  to 
another  room,  turned  back.  An  aged  man,  with  a 
magnificent  head,  was  on  his  feet  to  describe  his  first 
meeting  with  Carlyle. 

“  Who  is  it  ?  ”  asked  Rob,  and  Simms  mentioned 
the  name  of  a  celebrity  only  a  little  less  renowned 
than  Carlyle  himself.  To  Rob  it  had  been  one  of  the 
glories  of  London  that  in  the  streets  he  sometimes 
came  suddenly  upon  world-renowned  men,  but  he  now 
looked  upon  this  eminent  scientist  for  the  first  time. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  175 

The  celebrity  was  there  as  a  visitor,  for  the  Wigwam 
cannot  boast  quite  such  famous  members  as  he. 

The  septuagenarian  began  his  story  well.  He  de¬ 
scribed  the  approach  to  Craigenputtock  on  a  warm 
summer  afternoon,  and  the  emotions  that  laid  hqld  of 
him  as,  from  a  distance,  he  observed  the  sage  seated 
astride  a  low  dyke,  flinging  stones  into  the  duck-pond. 
The  pedestrian  announced  his  name  and  the  pleasure 
with  which  he  at  last  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
greatest  writer  of  the  day  ;  and  then  the  genial  author 
of  “  Sartor  Resartus,”  annoyed  at  being  disturbed, 
jumped  off  the  dyke  and  chased  his  visitor  round  and 
round  the  duck-pond.  The  celebrity  had  got  thus  far 
in  his  reminiscence  when  he  suddenly  stammered,  bit 
his  lip  as  if  enraged  at  something,  and  then  trembled 
so  much  that  he  had  to  be  led  back  to  his  seat. 

“  He  must  be  ill,”  whispered  Rob  to  Simms. 

“  It  isn’t  that,”  answered  Simms ;  “  I  fancy  he  must 
have  caught  sight  of  Wingfield.” 

Rob’s  companion  pointed  to  a  melancholy-looking 
man  in  a  seedy  coat,  who  was  sitting  alone,  glaring  at 
the  celebrity. 

“  Who  is  he  ?  ”  asked  Rob. 

“  He  is  the  great  man’s  literary  executor,”  Simms 
replied ;  “  come  along  with  me  and  hearken  to  his  sad 
tale ;  he  is  never  loth  to  tell  it.” 

They  crossed  over  to  Wingfield,  who  received  them 
dejectedly. 

This  is  not  a  matter  I  care  to  speak  of,  Mr.  Angus,” 


176 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


said  the  sorrowful  man,  who  spoke  of  it,  however,  as 
frequently  as  he  could  find  a  listener.  “It  is  now 
seven  years  since  that  gentleman  ” — pointing  angrily 
at  the  celebrity,  who  glared  in  reply — “  appointed  me 
his  literary  executor.  At  the  time  I  thought  it  a 
splendid  appointment,  and  by  the  end  of  two  years  I 
had  all  his  remains  carefully  edited  and  his  biography 
ready  for  the  Press.  He  was  an  invalid  at  that  time, 
supposed  to  be  breaking  up  fast ;  yet  look  at  him 
now.” 

“  He  is  quite  vigorous  in  appearance  now,”  said  Kob. 

“  Oh,  I’ve  given  up  hope,”  continued  the  sad  man, 
dolefully. 

“  Still,”  remarked  Simms,  “  I  don’t  know  that  you 
could  expect  him  to  die  just  for  your  sake.  I  only 
venture  that  as  an  opinion,  of  course.” 

“  I  don’t  ask  that  of  him,”  responded  Wingfield. 
“  I’m  not  blaming  him  in  any  way  ;  all  I  say  is  that 
he  has  spoiled  my  life.  Here  have  I  been  waiting, 
waiting  for  five  years,  and  I  seem  farther  from  publi¬ 
cation  than  ever.” 

“  It  is  hard  on  you,”  said  Simms. 

“  But  why  did  he  break  down  in  his  story,”  asked 
Rob,  “  when  he  saw  you  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  the  man  has  some  sense  of  decency  left,  I 
suppose,  and  knows  that  he  has  ruined  my  career.” 

“  Is  the  Carlylean  reminiscence  taken  from  the  biog¬ 
raphy?”  inquired  Simms. 

“  That  is  the  sore  point,”  answered  Wingfield, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


177 


sullenly.  “  He  used  to  sliun  society,  but  now  lie  goes 
to  clubs,  banquets,  and  ‘  At  Homes,’  and  tells  tiie 
choice  things  in  the  memoir  at  every  one  of  them. 
The  book  will  scarcely  be  worth  printing  now.” 

“I  dare  say  be  feels  sorry  for  you,”  said  Simms. 
“  and  sees  that  be  has  placed  you  in  a  false  position.” 

“  He  does  in  a  way,”  replied  the  literary  executor, 
“  and  yet  I  irritate  him.  When  he  was  ill  last  De¬ 
cember  I  called  to  ask  for  him  every  day,  but  he  mis¬ 
took  my  motives  ;  and  now  he  is  frightened  to  be  left 
alone  with  me.” 

“  It  is  a  sad  business,”  said  Simms,  “  but  we  an 
have  our  trials.” 

“  I  would  try  to  bear  up  better,”  said  the  sad  man, 
“  if  I  got  more  sympathy.” 

It  was  very  late  when  Simms  and  Rob  left  the 
Wigwam,  yet  they  were  among  the  first  to  go. 

“  When  does  the  club  close  ?  ”  Rob  asked,  as  they 
got  into  the  fresh  air. 

“-No  one  knows,”  answered  Simms,  wearily,  “but 
I  believe  the  last  man  to  go  takes  in  the  morning’s 
milk.” 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  Rob  worked  hard  at 

political  articles  for  the  Wire ,  and  at  last  began  to  feel 

that  he  was  making  some  headway.  He  had  not  the 

fatal  facility  for  scribbling  that  distinguishes  some 

journalists,  but  he  had  felt  life  before  he  took  to  writing. 

His  style  was  forcible  if  not  superfine,  and  he  had  the 

faculty  that  makes  a  journalist,  of  only  seeing  things 

12 


178 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


from  one  point  of  view.  The  successful  political  writer 
is  blind  in  one  eye. 

Though  one  in  three  of  Rob’s  articles  was  now  used, 
the  editor  of  the  Wire  did  not  write  to  say  that  he 
liked  them,  and  Rob  never  heard  any  one  mention 
them.  Even  Simms  would  not  read  them,  but  then 
Simms  never  read  any  paper.  He  got  his  news  from 
the  placards,  and  bought  the  Scalping  Knife ,  not  to 
read  his  own  articles,  but  to  measure  them  and 
calculate  how  much  he  would  get  for  them.  Then  he 
dropned  them  into  the  gutter. 

Some  weeks  had  passed  without  Rob’s  seeing  Simms, 
when  one  day  he  got  a  letter  that  made  him  walk 
rounci  and  round  his  table  like  a  circus-horse.  It  was 
from  the  editor  of  the  Wire  asking  him  to  be  in  read¬ 
iness  to  come  to  the  office  any  evening  he  might  be 
wanted  to  write.  This  looked  like  a  step  toward  an 
appointment  on  the  staff  if  he  gave  satisfaction  (a 
proviso  which  he  took  complacently),  and  Rob’s  chest 
expanded,  till  the  room  seemed  quite  small.  He 
pictured  Thrums  again.  He  jumped  to  Mary  Abinger, 
and  then  he  distinctly  saw  himself  in  the  editorial 
chair  of  the  Times.  He  was  lying  back  in  it,  smoking 
a  cigar,  and  giving  a  Cabinet  minister  five  minutes. 

Nearly  six  months  had  passed  since  Rob  saw  Miss 
Abinger — a  long  time  for  a  young  man  to  remain  in 
love  with  the  same  person.  Of  late  Rob  had  been 
less  given  to  dreaming  than  may  be  expected  of  a  man 
who  classifies  the  other  sex  into  one  particular  lady 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


179 


and  others,  but  Mary  was  coming  to  London  in  the 
early  summer,  and  when  he  thought  of  summer  he 
meant  Mary.  Rob  was  oftener  in  Piccadilly  in  May 
than  he  had  been  during  the  previous  four  months, 
and  he  was  always  looking  for  somebody.  It  was 
the  third  of  June,  a  day  to  he  remembered  in  his 
life,  that  he  heard  from  the  editor  of  the  Wire.  At 
five  o’clock  he  looked  upon  that  as  what  made  it  a  day 
of  days,  hut  he  had  changed  his  mind  by  a  quarter 
past. 

Rob  had  a  silk  hat  now,  and  he  thrust  it  on  his 
head,  meaning  to  run  downstairs  to  tell  Simms  of  his 
good  fortune.  He  was  in  the  happy  frame  of  mind 
that  makes  a  man  Walk  round  improbabilities,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  he  came  to  London  he  felt  confident 
of  the  future,  without  becoming  despondent  imme¬ 
diately  afterward.  The  future,  like  the  summer,  was 
an  allegory  for  Miss  Abinger.  For  the  moment  Rob’s 
heart  filled  with  compassion  for  Simms.  The  one 
thing  our  minds  will  not  do  is  leave  our  neighbors 
alone,  and  Rob  had  some  time  before  reached  the 
conclusion  that  Simms’  nature  had  been  twisted  by 
a  disappointment  in  love.  There  was  nothing  else 
that  could  account  for  his  fits  of  silence,  his  indiffer¬ 
ence  to  the  future.  He  was  known  to  have  given 
the  coat  off  his  back  to  some  miserable  creature  in 
the  street,  and  to  have  been  annoyed  when  he  dis¬ 
covered  that  a  friend  saw  him  do  it.  Though  Simms’ 
walls  were  covered  with  engravings,  Rob  remembered 


180 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


all  at  once  that  there  was  not  a  female  figure  in  one  of 
them. 

To  sympathize  with  others  in  a  love  affair  is  delight¬ 
ful  to  every  one  who  feels  that  he  is  all  right  himself. 
Rob  went  down  to  Simms’  rooms  with  a  joyous  step 
and  a  light  heart.  The  outer  door  stood  ajar,  and 
as  he  pushed  it  open  he  heard  a  voice  that  turned  his 
face  white.  From  where  he  stood  paralyzed  he  saw 
through  the  dark  passage  into  the  sitting-room. 
Mary  Abinger  was  standing  before  the  fireplace,  and 
as  Rob’s  arm  fell  from  the  door,  Simms  bent  forward 
and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XL 


ROB  IS  STRUCK  DOWN-. 

Rob  turned  from  Simms’  door  and  went  quietly  down¬ 
stairs,  looking  to  the  beadle,  who  gave  him  a  good- 
evening  at  the  mouth  of  the  inn,  like  a  man  going 
quietly  to  his  work.  He  could  not  keep  his  thoughts. 
They  fell  about  him  in  sparks,  raised  by  a  wheel  whirl¬ 
ing  so  fast  that  it  seemed  motionless. 

Sleep-walkers  seldom  come  to  damage  until  they 
awake,  and  Rob  sped  on,  taking  crossings  without  a 
halt ;  deaf  to  the  shouts  of  cabmen,  blind  to  their  ges¬ 
ticulations.  When  you  have  done  Oxford  Circus  you 
can  do  anything ;  but  he  was  not  even  brought  to  him¬ 
self  there,  though  it  is  all  savage  lands  in  twenty 
square  yards.  For  a  time  he  saw  nothing  but  that 
scene  in  Simms’  chambers,  which  had  been  photo¬ 
graphed  on  his  brain.  The  light  of  his  life  had  sud¬ 
denly  been  turned  out,  leaving  him  only  the  last  thing 
he  saw  to  think  about. 

By  and  by  he  was  walking  more  slowly,  laughing 
at  himself.  Since  he  met  Mary  Abinger  she  had  lived 
so  much  in  his  mind  that  he  had  not  dared  to  think  of 


182 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


losing  her.  He  had  only  given  himself  fits  of  despond, 
ency  for  the  pleasure  of  dispelling  them.  Now  all  at 
once  he  saw  without  prejudice  the  Rob  Angus  who  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  carry  off  this  prize,  and  he  cut 
such  a  poor  figure  that  he  smiled  grimly  at  it.  He 
realized  as  a  humorous  conception  that  this  uncouth 
young  man  who  was  himself  must  have  fancied  that 
he  was,  on  the  whole,  less  unworthy  of  Miss  Abinger 
than  were  most  of  the  young  men  she  was  likely  to 
meet.  With  the  exaggerated  humility  that  comes 
occasionally  to  men  in  his  condition,  without,  how¬ 
ever,  feeling  sufficiently  at  home  to  remain  long,  he 
felt  that  there  was  everything  in  Simms  a  girl  could 
find  lovable,  and  nothing  in  himself.  He  was  so  ter¬ 
ribly  open  that  any  one  could  understand  him,  while 
Simms  was  such  an  enigma  as  a  girl  would  love  to 
read.  His  own  clumsiness  contrasted  as  disastrously 
with  Simms’  grace  of  manner  as  his  blunt  talk  com¬ 
pared  with  Simms’  wit.  Not  being  able  to  see  himself 
with  the  eyes  of  others,  Rob  noted  only  one  thing  in 
his  favor,  his  fight  forward ;  which  they,  knowing,  for 
instance,  that  he  was  better  to  look  at  than  most  men, 
would  have  considered  his  chief  drawback.  Rob  in  his 
calmer  moments  had  perhaps  as  high  an  opinion  of  his 
capacity  as  the  circumstances  warranted,  but  he  never 
knew  that  a  good  many  ladies  felt  his  presence  when 
he  passed  them. 

Most  men  are  hero  and  villain  several  times  in  a 
day,  but  Rob  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of  sensa- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


183 


tions  in  half  an  hour,  hating  himself  the  one  moment 
for  what  seemed  another’s  fault  the  next,  fancying 
now  that  he  was  blessing  the  union  of  Mary  with  the 
man  she  cared  for,  and,  again,  that  he  had  Simms  by 
the  throat.  He  fled  from  the  fleeting  form  of  woman, 
and  ran  after  it. 

Simms  had  deceived  him,  had  never  even  mentioned 
Silchester,  had  laughed  at  the  awakening  that  was 
coming  to  him.  All  these  months  they  had  been 
waiting  for  Mary  Abinger  together,  and  Simms  had 
not  said  that  when  she  came  it  would  be  to  him.  Then 
Rob  saw  what  a  foolish  race  these  thoughts  ran  in  his 
brain,  remembering  that  he  had  only  seen  Simms  twice 
for  more  than  a  moment,  and  that  he  himself  had 
never  talked  of  Silchester.  He  scorned  his  own  want 
of  generosity,  and  recalled  his  solicitude  for  Simms’ 
welfare  an  hour  before. 

Rob  saw  his  whole  future  life  lying  before  him. 
The  broken-looking  man  with  the  sad  face  aged  before 
his  time,  who  walked  alone  up  Fleet  Street,  was  Rob 
Angus,  who  had  come  to  London  to  be  happy.  Simms 
would  ask  him  sometimes  to  his  house  to  see  her,  but 
it  was  better  that  he  should  not  go.  She.  would  un¬ 
derstand  why,  if  her  husband  did  not.  Her  husband  ! 
Rob  could  not  gulp  down  the  lump  in  his  throat.  He 
rushed  on  again,  with  nothing  before  him  but  that 
picture  of  Simms  kissing  her. 

Simms  was  not  worthy  of  her.  Why  had  he  always 
seemed  an  unhappy,  disappointed  man  if  the  one  thing 


184 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


in  the  world  worth  striving  for  was  his  ?  Rob  stopped 
abruptly  in  the  street  with  the  sudden  thought,  was 
it  possible  that  she  did  not  care  for  Simms  ?  Could 
that  scene  have  had  any  other  meaning  ?  He  had  once 
heard  Simms  himself  say  that  you  never  knew  what  a 
woman  meant  by  anything  until  she  told  you,  and 
probably  not  even  then.  Rut  he  saw  again  the  love  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  into  Simms’  face.  All 
through  his  life  he  would  carry  that  look  with  him. 
They  took  no  distinct  shape, "but  wild  ways  of  ending 
his  misery  coursed  through  his  brain,  and  he  looked 
on  calmly  at  his  own  funeral.  A  terrible  stolidity 
seized  him,  and  he  conceived  himself  a  monster  from 
whom  the  capacity  to  sympathize  had  gone.  Children 
saw  his  face  and  fled  from  him. 

He  had  left  England  far  behind,  and  dwelt  now 
among  wild  tribes  who  had  not  before  looked  upon  a 
white  face.  Their  sick  came  to  him  for  miracles,  and 
he  either  cured  them  or  told  them  to  be  gone.  He  was 
not  sure  whether  he  was  a  fiend  or  a  missionary. 

Then  something  remarkable  happened,  which 
showed  that  Rob  had  not  mistaken  his  profession. 
He  saw  himself  in  the  editorial  chair  that  he  had  so 
often  coveted,  and  Mary  Abinger,  too,  was  in  the 
room.  Always  previously  when  she  had  come  be¬ 
tween  him  and  the  paper  he  had  been  forced  to  lay 
down  his  pen,  but  now  he  wrote  on  and  on,  and  she 
seemed  to  help  him.  He  was  describing  the  scene 
that  he  had  witnessed  in  Simms’  chambers,  describ- 


WHEN  A  M AN'S  SINGLE. 


185 


ing  it  so  vividly  that  he  heard  the  great  public  discuss¬ 
ing  his  article  as  if  it  were  an  Academy  picture. 
His  passion  had  subsided,  and  the  best  words  formed 
slowly  in  his  brain.  He  was  hesitating  about  the 
most  fitting  title,  when  some  one  struck  against  him, 
and  as  he  drew  his  arm  over  his  eyes  he  knew  with 
horror  that  he  had  been  turning  Mary  Abinger  into 
copy. 

For  the  last  time  that  night  Rob  dreamed  again,  and 
now  it  was  such  a  fine  picture  he  drew  that  he  looked 
upon  it  with  sad  complacency.  Many  years  had 
passed.  Pie  was  now  rich  and  famous.  He  passed 
through  the  wynds  of  Thrums,  and  the  Auld  Lichts 
turned  out  to  gaze  at  him.  He  saw  himself  signing 
checks  for  all  kinds  of  charitable  objects,  and  appear¬ 
ing  in  the  subscription  lists,  with  a  grand  disregard 
for  glory  that  is  not  common  to  philanthropists,  as 
X.  Y.  Z.  or  “  A  well-wisher.”  His  walls  were  lined 
with  books  written  by  himself,  and  Mary  Abinger 
(who  had  not  changed  in  the  least  with  the  years)  read 
them  proudly,  knowing  that  they  were  all  written  for 
her.  (Simms  somehow  had  not  fulfilled  his  promise.) 
The  papers  were  full  of  his  speech  in  the  House  of 
Commons  the  night  before,  and  he  had  declined  a  seat 
in  the  Cabinet  from  conscientious  motives.  His  imag¬ 
ination  might  soon  have  landed  him  master  in  the 
Mansion  House,  had  it  not  deserted  him  when  he  had 
most  need  of  it.  He  fell  from  his  balloon  like  a  stone. 
Before  him  he  saw  the  blank  years  that  had  to  be 


186 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


traversed  without  any  Mary  Abinger,  and  despair 
filled  his  soul.  All  the  horrible  meaning  of  the 
scene  he  had  fled  from  came  to  him  like  a  rush  of 
blood  to  the  head,  and  he  stood  with  it,  glaring  at 
it,  in  the  middle  of  a  roaring  street.  Three  hansoms 
shaved  him  by  an  inch,  and  the  fourth  knocked  him 
senseless. 

An  hour  later  Simms  was  lolling  in  his  chambers 
smoking,  his  chair  tilted  back  until  another  inch 
would  have  sent  him  over  it.  Ilis  gas  had  been 
blazing  all  day  because  he  had  no  blotting-paper,  and 
the  blinds  were  nicely  pulled  down  because  Mary 
Abinger  and  Nell  were  there  to  do  it.  They  were 
sitting  on  each  side  of  him,  and  Nell  had  on  a  round 
cap,  about  which  Simms  subsequently  wrote  an  ar¬ 
ticle.  Mary’s  hat  was  larger  and  turned  up  at  one 
side;  the  fashion  which  arose  through  a  carriage- 
wheel’s  happening  to  pass  over  the  hat  of  a  leader  of 
fashion  and  making  it  perfectly  lovely.  Beyond  the  hats 
one  does  not  care  to  venture,  but  out  of  fairness  to 
Mary  and  Nell  it  should  be  said  that  there  were  no 
shiny  little  beads  on  their  dresses. 

They  had  put  on  their  hats  to  go,  and  then  they 
had  sat  down  again  to  tell  their  host  a  great  many 
things  that  they  had  told  him  already.  Even  Mary, 
who  was  perfect  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  took  a  con¬ 
siderable  time  to  tell  a  story,  and  expected  it  to  have 
more  point  when  it  ended  than  was  sometimes  the 
case.  Simms,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  let  the 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


187 


laughter  ripple  over  his  head,  and  drowsily  heard  the 
details  of  their  journey  from  Silchester  afresh.  Mary 
had  come  up  with  the  Merediths  on  the  previous 
day,  and  they  were  now  staying  at  the  Langham 
Hotel.  They  would  only  he  in  town  for  a  few  weeks ; 
“just  to  oblige  the  season,”  Nell  said,  for  she  had 
inveigled  her  father  into  taking  a  house-boat  on  the 
Thames,  and  was  certain  it  would  prove  delightful. 
Mary  was  to  accompany  them  there,  too,  having  first 
done  her  duty  to  society,  and  Colonel  Abinger  was 
setting  off  shortly  for  the  Continent.  In  the  middle 
of  her  prattle  Nell  distinctly  saw  Simms’  head  nod, 
as  if  it’ was  loose  in  its  socket.  She  made  a  mourn¬ 
ful  grimace. 

Simms  sat  up. 

“  Your  voices  did  it,”  he  explained,  unabashed.  They 
are  as  soothing  to  the  jaded  journalist  as  the  streams 
that  murmur  through  the  fields  in  June.” 

“  Cigars  are  making  you  stupid,  Dick,”  said  Mary ; 
“  I  do  wonder  why  men  smoke.” 

“  I  have  often  asked  myself  that  question,”  thought¬ 
fully  answered  Simms,  whom  it  is  time  to  call  by  his 
real  name  of  Dick  Abinger.  “  I  know  some  men  who 
smoke  because  they  might  get  sick  otherwise  when  in 
the  company  of  smokers.  Others  smoke  because  they 
began  to  do  so  at  school,  and  are  now  afraid  to  leave 
off.  A  great  many  men  smoke  for  philanthropic  mo¬ 
tives,  smoking  enabling  them  to  work  harder,  and  so 
being  for  their  family’s  good.  At  picnics  men  smoke 


188 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


because  it  is  the  only  way  to  keep  the  midges  off  the 
ladies.  Smoking  keeps  you  cool  in  summer  and  warm 
in  winter,  and  is  an  excellent  disinfectant.  There  are 
even  said  to  be  men  who  admit  that  they  smoke  because 
they  like  it,  but  for  my  own  part  I  fancy  I  smoke  be¬ 
cause  I  forget  not  to  do  so.” 

“  Silly  reasons,”  said  Nell.  If  there  was  one  pos¬ 
sible  improvement  she  could  conceive  in  Dick  it  was 
that  he  might  make  his  jests  a  little  easier. 

“  It  is  revealing  no  secret,”  murmured  Abinger  in 
reply,  “  to  say  that  drowning  men  clutch  at  straws.” 

Mary  rose  to  go  once  more,  and  sat  down  again, 
for  she  had  remembered  something  else. 

“Do  you  know,  Dick,”  she  said,  “that  your  two 
names  are  a  great  nuisance.  On  our  way  to  London 
yesterday  there  was  an  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Mere¬ 
dith’s  in  the  carriage,  and  he  told  us  he  knew  Noble 
Simms  well.” 

“Yes,”  said  Nell,  “and  that  this  Noble  ~Simms  was 
an  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  married,  for  thirty 
years.  We  said  we  knew  Mr.  Noble  Simms,  and  that 
he  was  a  barrister,  and  he  laughed  at  us.  So  you  see 
some  one  is  trading  on  your  name.” 

“Much  good  may  it  do  him,”  said  Abinger  gen¬ 
erously. 

“  But  it  is  horrid,”  said  Nell,  “  that  we  should  have 
to  listen  to  people  praising  Noble  Simms’  writings, 
and  not  be  allowed  to  say  that  he  is  Dick  Abinger  in 
disguise.” 


WEEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


189 


“  It  must  be  very  hard  on  you,  Nell,  to  have  to  keep 
a  secret,”  admitted  Dick,  “but  you  see  I  must  lead 
two  lives  or  be  undone.  In  the  Temple  you  will  see 
the  name  of  Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at-law,  but  in 
Frobisher’s  Inn  he  is  J.  Noble  Simms.” 

“  I  don’t  see  the  good  of  it,”  said  Nell. 

“  My  ambition,  you  must  remember,”  explained 
Dick,  “  is  to  be  Lord  Chancellor  or  v  Lord  Chief  Jus¬ 
tice,  I  forget  which,  but  while  I  wait  for  that  post  I 
must  live,  and  I  live  by  writings  (which  are  all  dead 
the  morning  after  they  appear).  Now  such  is  the 
suspicion  with  which  literature  is  regarded  by  the 
legal  mind  that,  were  it  known  I  wrote  for  the  Press, 
my  chance  of  the  Lord  Chancellorship  would  cease 
to  be  a  moral  certainty.  The  editor  of  the  Scalping 
Knife  has  not  the  least  notion  that  Noble  Simms  is 
the  rising  barrister  who  has  been  known  to  make  as 
much  by  the  law  as  a  guinea  in  a  single  month.  In¬ 
deed,  only  my  most  intimate  friends,  some  of  whom 
practice  the  same  deception  themselves,  are  aware 
that  the  singular  gifts  of  Simms  and  Abinger  are 
united  in  the  same  person.” 

“  The  housekeeper  here  must  know  ?  ”  asked  Mary, 
“No,  it  would  hopelessly  puzzle  her,”  said  Dick; 
“  she  would  think  there  was  something  uncanny  about 
it,  and  so  she  is  happy  in  the  belief  that  the  letters 
which  occasionally  come  addressed  to  Abinger  are 
forwarded  by  me  to  that  gentleman’s  abode  in  the 
Temple.” 


190 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  It  is  sucli  an  ugly  name,  Noble  Simms,”  said  Nell ; 
“  I  wonder  why  you  selected  it.” 

“  It  is  ugly,  is  it  not?”  said  Dick.  “It  struck  me 
at  the  time  as  the  most  ridiculous  name  I  was  likely 
to  think  of,  and  so  I  chose  it.  Such  a  remark¬ 
able  name  sticks  to  the  public  mind,  and  that  is 
fame.” 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  to  get  the  two  girls  the  cab  that 
would  take  them  back  to  the  hotel. 

“There  is  some  one  knocking  at  the  door,”  said 
Mary. 

“  Come  in,”  murmured  Abinger. 

* 

The  housekeeper  opened  the  door,  but  half  shut  it 
again  when  she  saw  that  Dick  was  not  alone.  Then 
she  thought  of  a  compromise  between  telling  her 
business  and  retiring. 

“If  you  please,  Mr.  Simms,”  she  said,  apologet¬ 
ically,  “  would  you  speak  to  me  a  moment  in  the 
passage  ?” 

Abinger  disappeared  with  her,  and  when  he  re¬ 
turned  the  indifferent  look  had  gone  from  his  face. 

“Wait  for  me  a  few  minutes,”  he  said;  “ a  man  up¬ 
stairs,  one  of  the  best  fellows  breathing,  has  met  with 
an  accident,  and  I  question  if  he  has  a  friend  in  Lon¬ 
don.  I  am  going  up  to  see  him.” 

“Poor  fellow!”  said  Mary  to  Nell,  after  Dick  had 
gone ;  “  fancy  his  lying  here  for  weeks  without  any 
one’s  going  near  him  but  Dick.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


191 


“  But  how  much  worse  it  would  be  without  Dick !  ” 
said  Nell. 

“  I  wonder  if  he  is  a  barrister  ?  ”  said  Mary. 

“  I  think  he  will  be  a  journalist  rather,”  Nell  said, 
thoughtfully,  “  a  tall,  dark,  melancholy-looking  man, 
and  I  should  not  wonder  though  he  had  a  broken 
heart.” 

“I’m  afraid  it  is  more  serious  than  that,”  said 
Mary. 

Nell  set  off  on  a  trip  round  the  room,  remarking 
with  a  profound  sigh  that  it  must  be  awful  to  live 
alone  and  have  no  one  to  speak  to  for  whole  hours  at 
a  time.  “  I  should  go  mad,”  she  said,  in  such  a  tone 
of  conviction  that  Mary  did  not  think  of  question¬ 
ing  it. 

Then  Nell,  who  had  opened  a  drawer  rather  guiltily, 
exclaimed,  “  Oh,  Mary  !  ” 

A  woman  can  put  more  meaning  into  a  note  of  ex¬ 
clamation  than  a  man  can  pack  in  a  sentence.  It  costs 
Mr.  Jones,  for  instance,  a  long  message  simply  to  tele¬ 
graph  to  his  wife  that  he  is  bringing  a  friend  home  to 
dinner,  but  in  a  sixpenny  reply  Mrs.  Jones  can  warn 
him  that  he  had  better  do  no  such  thing ;  that  he  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself  for  thinking  of  it,  that  he  must 
make  some  excuse  to  his  friend,  and  that  he  will  hear 
more  of  this  when  he  gets  home.  Nell’s  “  Oh,  Mary !  ” 
signified  that  chaos  was  come. 

Mary  hastened  round  the  table,  and  found  her  friend 
with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 


192 


WHEN  A  MAN' S  SINGLE. 


“Well,”  said  Mary,  “that  is  one  of  your  letters  to 
Dick,  is  it  not  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  answered  Nell  tragically;  “but  fancy  his 
keeping  my  letters  lying  about  carelessly  in  a  drawer 
— and — and,  yes,  using  them  as  scribbling  paper  !  ” 

Scrawled  across  the  envelopes  in  a  barely  decipher¬ 
able  handwriting  were  such  notes  as  these  :  “  School¬ 
boys  smoking  master’s  cane-chair,  work-up  ;  ”  “  Re¬ 
turn  of  the  swallows  (poetic  or  humorous  ? ) ;  ”  “  My 
First  Murder  (magazine  ?) ;  ”  “  Better  do  something 
pathetic  for  a  change.” 

There  were  tears  in  Nell’s  eyes. 

“  This  comes  of  prying,”  said  Mary. 

“  Oh,  I  wasn’t  prying,”  said  Nell ;  “  I  only  opened  it 
by  accident.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.  I  can’t  say  any- 
thing  about  them  to  him,  because  he  might  think  I  had 
opened  his  drawer  to — to  see  what  was  in  it — which  is 
the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  would  think  of  doing. 
Oh,  Mary,”  she  added  woefully,  “  what  do  you 
think  ?  ” 

“  I  think  you  are  a  goose,”  said  Mary  promptly. 

“  Ah,  you  are  so  indifferent,”  Nell  said,  surrender¬ 
ing  her  position  all  at  once.  “  Now  when  I  see  a 
drawer,  I  am  quite  unhappy  until  I  know  what  is  in 
it,  especially  if  it  is  locked.  When  we  lived  oppo¬ 
site  the  Burtons  I  was  miserable  because  they  always 
kept  the  blind  of  one  of  their  windows  down.  If  I 
had  been  a  boy  I  would  have  climbed  up  to  see  Avhy 
they  did  it.  Ah !  that  is  Dick ;  I  know  his  step.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  193 

She  was  hastening  to  the  door,  when  she  remem¬ 
bered  the  letters,  and  subsided  primly  into  a  chair. 

“  Well  ?  ”  asked  Mary,  as  her  brother  re-entered  with 
something  in  his  hand. 

“  The  poor  fellow  has  had  a  nasty  accident,”  said 
Dick  ;  “  run  over  in  the  street,  it  seems.  He  ought  to 
have  been  taken  to  the  infirmary,  but  they  got  a  letter 
with  his  address  on  it  in  his  pocket,  and  brought  him 
here.” 

“  Has  a  doctor  seen  him  ?  ” 

“Yes,  but  I  hardly  make  out  from  the  housekeeper 
what  he  said.  He  was  gone  before  I  went  up.  There 
are  some  signs,  however,  of  what  he  did.  The  poor 
fellow  seems  to  have  been  struck  on  the  head.” 

Mary  shuddered,  understanding  that  some  operation 
had  been  found  necessary. 

“  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?  ”  asked  Nell. 

“  He  was  asleep,”  said  Dick,  “  but  talking  more  than 
he  does  when  he  is  awake.” 

“  He  must  have  been  delirious,”  said  Mary. 

“One  thing  I  can’t  make  out,”  Dick  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  his  companions.  “He  mumbled  my 
name  to  himself  half  a  dozen  times  while  I  was  up¬ 
stairs.” 

“  But  is  there  anything  remarkable  in  that,”  asked 
Mary,  “  if  he  has  so  few  friends  in  London  ?  ” 

“  What  I  don’t  understand,”  explained  Dick,  “  is  that 
the  word  I  caught  was  Abinger.  Now,  I  am  quite  cer¬ 
tain  that  he  only  knew  me  as  Noble  Simms.” 

13 


194 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Some  one  must  have  told  him  your  real  name,”  said 
Mary.  “  Is  he  asleep  now  ?  ” 

“  That  reminds  me  of  another  thing,”  said  Dick, 
looking  at  the  torn  card  in  his  hand.  “  Just  as  I  was 
coming  away  he  staggered  off  the  couch  where  he  is 
lying  to  his  desk,  opened  it,  and  took  out  this  card. 
He  glared  at  it,  and  tore  it  in  two  before  I  got  him 
hack  to  the  couch.” 

There  were  tears  in  Nell’s  eyes  now,  for  she  felt  that 
she  understood  it  all. 

“  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  him  alone  up  there,”  she 
cried.  “  Let  us  go  up  to  him,  Mary.” 

Mary  hesitated. 

“  I  don’t  think  it  would  be  the  thing,”  she  said,  tak¬ 
ing  the  card  from  Nell’s  hand.  She  started  slightly 
as  she  looked  at  it,  and  then  became  white. 

“  What  is  his  name,  Dick  ?  ”  she  faltered,  in  a  voice 
that  made  Nell  look  at  her. 

“  Angus,”  said  Dick.  “  He  has  been  on  the  Press 
here  for  some  months.” 

The  name  suggested  nothing  at  the  moment  to  Nell, 
but  Mary  let  the  card  fall.  It  was  a  shabby  little 
Christmas-card. 

“  I  think  we  should  go  up  and  see  if  we  can  do  any¬ 
thing,”  Dick’s  sister  said. 

“But  would  it  be  the  thing?”  Nell  asked. 

“  Of  course  it  would,”  said  Mary,  a  little  surprised 
at  Nell. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  STUPID  SEX. 

Give  a  man  his  chance,  and  he  has  sufficient  hard¬ 
ihood  for  anything.  Within  a  week  of  the  accident 
Rob  was  in  Dick  Abinger’s  most  luxurious  chair, 
coolly  taking  a  cup  and  saucer  from  Nell,  while  Mary 
arranged  a  cushion  for  his  poor  head.  He  even  made 
several  light-hearted  jests,  at  which  his  nurses  laughed 
heartily — because  he  was  an  invalid. 

Rob’s  improvement  dated  from  the  moment  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  a  lady’s 
skirts  in  the  next  room.  He  lay  quietly  listening,  and 
realized  by  and  by  that  he  had  known  she  was  Mary 
Abinger  all  along. 

“  Who  is  that  ?  ”  he  said  abruptly  to  Dick,  who  was 
swinging  his  legs  on  the  dressing-table.  Dick  came  to 
him  as  awkwardly  as  if  he  had  been  asked  to  hold  a 
baby,  and  saw  no  way  of  getting  out  of  it.  Sick-rooms 
chilled  him. 

“  Are  you  feeling  better  now,  old  fellow?”  he  asked. 

“  Who  is  it  ?  ”  Rob  repeated,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

“  That  is  my  sister,”  Dick  said. 

Rob's  head  fell  back.  He  could  not  take  it  in  all  at 


196 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


once.  Dick  thought  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and  tried  to 
slip  gently  from  the  room,  discovering  for  the  first 
time  as  he  did  so  that  his  shoes  creaked. 

“  Don’t  go,”  said  Rob,  sitting  up  again.  “  What  is 
your  sister’s  name  ?  ” 

“Abinger,  of  course — Mary  Abinger,”  answered 
Dick,  under  the  conviction  that  the  invalid  was  still  off 
his  head.  He  made  for  the  door  again,  but  Rob’s  arm 
went  out  suddenly  and  seized  him. 

“You  are  a  liar,  you  know,”  Rob  said,  feebly ;  “  she’s 
not  your  sister.” 

“  No,  of  course  not,”  said  Dick,  humoring  him. 

“  I  want  to  see  her,”  Rob  said,  authoritatively. 

“  Certainly,”  answered  Dick,  escaping  into  the  other 
room  to  tell  Mary  that  the  patient  was  raving  again. 

“  I  heard  him,”  said  Mary. 

“Well,  what’s  to  be  done?”  asked  her  brother. 
“  He’s  madder  than  ever.  ” 

“  Oh,  no,  I  think  he’s  getting  on  nicely  now,”  Mary 
said,  moving  toward  the  bedroom. 

“  Don’t,”  exclaimed  Dick,  getting  in  front  of  her ; 
“  why,  I  tell  you  his  mind  is  wandering.  He  says 
you’re  not  my  sister.” 

“  Of  course  he  can’t  understand  so  long  as  he  thinks 
your  name  is  Simms.” 

“  But  he  knows  my  name  is  Abinger.  Didn’t  I  tell 
you  I  heard  him  groaning  it  over  to  himself  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  Dick,”  said  Mary,  “  I  wish  you  would  go  away 
and  write  a  stupid  article.” 


* 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE .  197 

Dick,  however,  stood  at  the  door,  ready  to  come  to 
his  sister’s  assistance  if  Rob  got  violent. 

“  He  says  you  are  his  sister,”  said  the  patient  to 
Mary. 

“  So  I  am,”  said  Mary  softly.  “  My  brother  writes 
under  the  name  of  Noble  Simms,  but  his  real  name  is 
Abinger.  Now  you  must  lie  still  and  think  about  that ; 
you  are  not  to  talk  any  more.” 

“  I  won’t  talk  any  more,”  said  Rob  slowly.  “  You 
are  not  going  away,  though?” 

“Just  for  a  little  while,”  Mary  answered.  “The 
doctor  will  be  here  presently.” 

“  Well,  you  have  quieted  him,”  Dick  admitted. 

They  were  leaving  the  room  when  they  heard  Rob 
calling. 

“  There  he  goes  again,”  said  Dick,  groaning. 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  Mary  asked,  returning  to  the  bedroom. 

“  Why  did  he  say  you  were  not  his  sister  ?  ”  Rob 
said,  very  suspiciously. 

“Oh,  his  mind  was  wandering,”  Mary  answered 
cruelly. 

She  was  retiring  again,  but  stopped  undecidedly. 
Then  she  looked  from  the  door  to  see  if  her  brother 
was  within  hearing.  Dick  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
sitting-room,  and  she  came  back  noiselessly  to  Rob’s 
bedside. 

“Do  you  remember,”  she  asked  in  a  low  voice,  “how 
the  accident  happened  ?  You  know  you  were  struck 
by  a  cab.” 


198 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Yes,”  answered  Rob  at  once,  “I  saw  him  kissing 
you.  I  don’t  remember  anything  after  that.” 

Mary,  looking  like  a  culprit,  glanced  hurriedly  at  the 
door.  Then  she  softly  pushed  the  invalid’s  unruly 
hair  off  his  brow,  and  glided  from  the  room  smiling. 

“  Well  ?  ”  asked  Dick. 

“He  was  telling  me  how  the  accident  happened,” 
Mary  said. 

“  And  how  was  it  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  just  as  you  said.  He  got  bewildered  at  a  cross¬ 
ing,  and  was  knocked  over.” 

“  But  he  wasn’t  the  man  to  lose  his  reason  at  a  cross¬ 
ing,”  said  Dick.  “  There  must  have  been  something  to 
agitate  him.” 

“  He  said  nothing  about  that,”  replied  Mary,  with¬ 
out  blushing. 

“  Did  he  tell  you  how  he  knew  my  name  was  Abin- 
ger  ?  ”  Dick  asked,  as  they  went  downstairs. 

“  No,”  his  sister  said,  “  I  forgot  to  ask  him.” 

“There  was  that  Christmas  card,  too,”  Dick  said, 
suddenly.  “Nell  says  Angus  must  be  in  love,  poor 
fellow.” 

“Nell  is  always  thinking  people  are  in  love,”  Mary 
answered  severely. 

“  By  the  way,”  said  Dick,  “  what  became  of  the  card  ? 
He  might  want  to  treasure  it,  you  know.” 

“  I — I  rather  think  I  put  it  somewhere,”  Mary  said. 

“  I  wonder,”  Dick  remarked  curiously,  “  what  sort 
of  girl  Angus  would  take  to  ?  ” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


199 


“  I  wonder,”  said  Mary. 

They  were  back  in  Dick’s  chambers  by  this  time, 
and  he  continued  with  some  complacency — for  all  men 
think  they  are  on  safe  ground  when  discussing  an 
affair  of  the  heart : 

“  W e  could  build  the  young  lady  up  from  the  card, 
which,  presumably,  was  her  Christmas  offering  to  him. 
It  was  not  expensive,  so  she  is  a  careful  young  person ; 
and  the  somewhat  florid  design  represents  a  blue-bird 
sitting  on  a  pink  twig,  so  that  we  may  hazard  the 
assertion  that  her  artistic  taste  is  not  as  yet  fully 
developed.  She  is  a  fresh  country  maid,  or  the  some¬ 
what  rich  coloring  would  not  have  taken  her  fancy, 
and  she  is  short,  a  trifle  stout,  or  a  big  man  like  Angus 
would  not  have  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Reserved  men 
like  gushing  girls,  so  she  gushes  and  says  ‘  Oh  my !  ’ 
and  her  nicest  dress  (here  Dick  shivered)  is  of  a  shiny 
satin  with  a  dash  of  rich  velvet  here  and  there.  Do 
you  follow  me  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Mary;  “it  is  wonderful.  I  suppose, 
now,  you  are  never  wrong  when  you  ‘build  up’  so 
much  on  so  little  ?  ” 

“  Sometimes  we  go  a  little  astray,”  admitted  Dick. 
“  I  remember  going  into  a  hotel  with  Rorrison  once, 
and  on  a  table  we  saw  a  sailor-hat  lying,  something 
like  the  one  Nell  wears— or  is  it  you?  ” 

“  The  idea  of  your  not  knowing !  ”  said  his  sister 
indignantly. 

“Well,  we  discussed  the  probable  owner.  I  con- 


200 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


eluded,  after  narrowly  examining  the  hat,  that  she 
was  tall,  dark,  and  handsome,  rather  than  pretty. 
Rorrison,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that  she  was 
a  pretty,  baby-faced  girl,  with  winning  ways.” 

“  And  did  you  discover  if  either  of  you  was  right  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  Dick  slowly.  “In  the  middle  of  the 
discussion  a  little  hoy  in  a  velvet  suit  toddled  into  the 
room,  and  said  to  us,  ‘  Gim’me  my  hat.’  ” 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Rob  had  many  delicious 
experiences.  He  was  present  at  several  tea-parties  in 
Abinger’s  chambers,  the  guests  being  strictly  limited 
to  three  ;  and  when  he  could  not  pretend  to  be  ill  any 
longer,  he  gave  a  tea-party  himself  in  honor  of  his  two 
nurses — his  one-and-a-half  nurses,  Dick  called  them. 
At  this  Mary  poured  out  the  tea,  and  Rob’s  eyes 
showed  so  plainly  (though  not  to  Dick)  that  he  had 
never  seen  anything  like  it,  that  Nell  became  thought¬ 
ful,  and  made  a  number  of  remarks  on  the  subject  to 
her  mother  as  soon  as  she  returned  home. 

“  It  would  never  do,”  Nell  said,  looking  wise. 

“  Whatever  would  the  colonel  say !  ”  exclaimed 
Mrs  Meredith.  “After  all,  though,”  she  added — for 
she  had  been  to  see  Rob  twice,  and  liked  him  because 
of  something  he  had  said  to  her  about  his  mother — 
“  he  is  just  the  same  as  Richard.” 

“  Oh,  no,  no,”  said  Nell ;  “  Dick  is  an  Oxford  man,  you 
must  remember,  and  Mr  Angus,  as  the  colonel  would 
say,  rose  from  obscurity.” 

“Well,  if  he  did,”  persisted  Mrs.  Meredith,  “  he  does 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  201 

not  seem  to  be  going  back  to  it,  and  universities  seem 
to  me  to  be  places  for  making  young  men  stupid.” 

“  It  would  never,  never  do,”  said  Nell,  with  doleful 
decision. 

“  What  does  Mary  say  about  him  ?  ”  asked  her 
mother. 

“  She  never  says  anything,”  said  Nell. 

44  Does  she  talk  much  to  him  ?  ” 

44  No ;  very  little.” 

44  That  is  a  good  sign,”  said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

44 1  don’t  know,”  said  Nell. 

44  Have  you  noticed  anything  else  ?  ” 

44  Nothing  except — well,  Mary  is  longer  in  dressing 
now  than  I  am,  and  she  used  not  to  be.” 

44 1  wonder,”  Mrs.  Meredith  remarked,  44  if  Mary  saw 
him  at  Silchester  after  that  time  at  the  Castle  ?  ” 

44  She  never  told  me  she  did,”  Nell  answered,  44  but 
sometimes  I  think — however,  there  is  no  good  in 
thinking.” 

44  It  isn’t  a  thing  you  often  do,  Nell.  By  the  way, 
he  saw  the  first  Sir  Clement  at  Dome  Castle,  did  he 
not  ?  ” 

44  Yes,”  Nell  said, 44  he  saw  the  impostor,  and  I  don’t 
suppose  he  knows  there  is  another  Sir  Clement. — The 
Abingers  don’t  like  to  speak  of  that.  However,  they 
may  meet  on  Friday,  for  Dick  has  got  Mr.  Angus  a 
card  for  the  Symphonia,  and  Sir  Clement  is  to  be 
there.” 

*4Wh&t  does  Richard  say  about  it?”  asked  Mr§, 


202  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Meredith,  going  back  apparently  upon  their  conversa¬ 
tion. 

“We  never  speak  about  it,  Dick  and  I,”  said  Nell. 

“  What  do  you  speak  about,  then  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  nothing,”  said  Nell. 

Mrs.  Meredith  sighed. 

“  And  you  such  an  heiress,  Nell,”  she  said ;  “  you 
could  do  so  much  better.  He  will  never  have  anything 
but  what  he  makes  by  writing ;  and,  if  all  stories  be 
true,  half  of  that  goes  to  the  colonel.  I’m  sure  your 
father  never  will  consent.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  he  will,”  Nell  said. 

“If  he  had  really  tried  to  get  on  at  the  bar,”  Mrs. 
Meredith  pursued,  “  it  would  not  have  been  so  bad, 
but  he  is  evidently  to  be  a  newspaper  man  all  his 
life.” 

“  I  wish  you  would  say  journalist,  mamma,”  Nell 
said,  pouting,  “  or  literary  man.  The  profession  of  let¬ 
ters  is  a  noble  one.” 

“  Perhaps  it  is,”  Mrs.  Meredith  assented  with  an¬ 
other  sigh,  “  and  I  dare  say  he  told  you  so,  but  I  can’t 
think  it  is  very  respectable.” 

Rob  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the  Symphonia, 
which  is  a  polite  club  attended  by  the  literary  fry  of 
both  sexes  ;  the  ladies  who  write  because  they  cannot 
help  it,  the  poets  who  excuse  their  verses  because  they 
were -  young  when  they  did  them,  the  clergymen  who 
publish  their  sermons  by  request  of  their  congrega¬ 
tions,  the  tourists  who  have  been  to  Spain  and  cannot 


WHEN  A  MAE'S  SINGLE. 


203 


keep  it  to  themselves.  The  club  meets  once  a  fort¬ 
night,  for  the  purpose  of  not  listening  to  music  and 
recitations ;  and  the  members,  of  whom  the  ladies  out¬ 
number  the  men,  sit  in  groups  round  little  lions  who 
roar  mildly.  The  Symphonia  is  very  fashionable  and 
select,  and,  having  heard  the  little  lions  a-roaring,  you 
get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  go  home  again. 

Dick  explained  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Sym¬ 
phonia  because  he  rather  liked  to  put  on  the  lion ’s  skin 
himself  now  and  again,  and  he  took  Mrs.  Meredith 
and  the  two  girls  to  it  to  show  them  of  what  literature 
in  its  higher  branches  is  capable.  The  elegant  dresses 
of  the  literary  ladies,  and  the  suave  manner  of  the 
literary  gentlemen,  impressed  Nell’s  mother  favorably ; 
and  the  Symphonia,  which  she  had  taken  for  an  out-at- 
elbows  club,  raised  letters  in  her  estimation. 

Rob,  however,  who  never  felt  quite  comfortable 
in  evening  dress,  had  a  bad  time  of  it;  for  Dick 
carried  him  off  at  once,  and  got  him  into  a  group 
round  the  authoress  of  “  My  Baby  Boy,”  to  whom  Rob 
was  introduced  as  a  passionate  admirer  of  her  delight¬ 
ful  works.  The  lion  made  room  for  him,  and  he  sat 
sadly  beside  her,  wishing  he  was  not .  o  big. 

Both  of  the  rooms  of  the  Symphonia  club  were 
crowded,  but  a  number  of  gentlemen  managed  to  wan¬ 
der  from  group  to  group  over  the  skirts  of  ladies’ 
gowns.  Rob  watched  them  wistfully  from  his  cage, 
and  observed  one  come  to  rest  at  the  back  of  Mary 
Abinger’s  chair.  He  was  a  medium -sized  man,  and  for 


204 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


five  minutes  Rob  thought  he  was  Sir  Clement  Dowton. 
Then  he  realized  that  he  had  been  deceived  by  a 
remarkable  resemblance. 

The  stranger  said  a  great  deal  to  Mary,  and  she 
seemed  to  like  him.  After  a  long  time  the  authoress’ 
voice  broke  in  on  Rob’s  cogitations,  and  when  he  saw 
that  she  was  still  talking  without  looking  tired,  a  cer¬ 
tain  awe  filled  him.  Then  Mary  rose  from  her  chair, 
taking  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  who  was  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent’s  double,  and  they  went  into  the  other  room  where 
the  coffee  was  served. 

Rob  was  tempted  to  sit  there  stupidly  miserable,  for 
the  easiest  thing  to  do  comes  to  us  first.  Then  he 
thought  it  was  better  to  be  a  man,  and,  drawing  up  his 
chest,  boldly  asked  the  lion  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee.  In 
another  moment  he  was  steering  her  through  the 
crowd,  her  hand  resting  on  his  arm,  and  to  his  amaze¬ 
ment  he  found  he  rather  liked  it. 

In  the  coffee-room  Rob  could  not  distinguish  the 
young  lady  who  moved  like  a  swan,  but  he  was 
elated  with  social  triumph,  and  cast  about  for  any 
journalist  of  his  acquaintance  who,  he  thought, 
might  like  to  r'"'°t  the  authoress  of  “  My  Baby  Boy.” 
It  struck  Rob  tnao  he  had  no  right  to  keep  her  all  to 
himself.  Quite  close  to  him  his  eye  lighted  on  Mar¬ 
riott,  the  author  of  “  Mary  Hooney  :  a  Romance  of  the 
Irish  Question,”  but  Marriott  saw  what  he  was  after, 
and  dived  into  the  crowd.  A  very  young  gentle¬ 
man,  with  large,  empty  eyes,  begged  Rob’s  pardon  for 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


‘205 


treading  on  his  toes,  and  Rob,  who  had  not  felt  it,  saw 
that  this  was  his  man.  He  introduced  him  to  the 
authoress  as  another  admirer,  and  the  round-faced 
youth  seemed  such  a  likely  subject  for  her  next  work 
that  Rob  moved  off  comfortably. 

A  shock  awaited  him  when  he  met  Dick,  who  had 
been  passing  the  time  by  taking  male  guests  aside  and 
asking  them  in  an  impressive  voice  what  they  thought 
of  his  great  book,  “  Lives  of  Eminent  Washerwomen,” 
which  they  had  no  doubt  read. 

“  Who  is  the  man  so  like  Dowton  ?  ”  he  repeated,  in 
answer  to  Rob’s  question.  “  Why,  it  is  Dowton.” 

Then  Dick  looked  vexed.  He  remembered  that  Rob 
had  been  at  Dome  Castle  on  the  previous  Christmas 
Eve. 

“Look  here,  Angus,”  he  said,  bluntly,  “this  is  a 
matter  I  hate  to  talk  about.  The  fact  is,  however,  that 
this  is  the  real  Sir  Clement.  The  fellow  you  met  was 
an  impostor,  who  came  from  no  one  knows  where. 
Unfortunately,  he  has  returned  to  the  same  place.” 

Dick  bit  his  lip  while  Rob  digested  this. 

“But  if  you  know  the  real  Dowton,”  Rob  asked, 
“  how  were  you  deceived  ?  ” 

“Well,  it  was  my  father  who  was  deceived  rather 
than  myself,  but  we  did  not  know  the  real  baronet  then. 
The  other  fellow,  if  you  must  know,  traded  on  his  like¬ 
ness  to  Dowton,  who  is  in  the  country  now  for  the 
first  time  for  many  years.  Whoever  the  impostor  is 
he  is  a  humorist  in  his  way,  for  when  he  left  the  Castle 


206 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


ill  January  lie  asked  my  father  to  call  on  him  when  he 
came  to  town.  The  fellow  must  have  known  that 
Dowton  wras  coming  home  about  that  time ;  at  all 
events,  my  father,  who  was  in  London  shortly  after¬ 
ward,  looked  up  his  friend  the  baronet,  as  he  thought, 
at  his  club,  and  found  that  he  had  never  set  eyes  on 
him  before.  It  would  make  a  delicious  article  if  it  had 
not  happened  in  one’s  own  family.” 

“  The  real  Sir  Clement  seems  great  friends  with  Miss 
Abinger,”  Rob  could  not  help  saying. 

“  Yes,”  said  Dick,  “we  struck  up  an  intimacy  with 
him  over  the  affair,  and  stranger  things  have  happened 
than  that  he  and  Mary - ” 

He  stopped. 

“  My  father,  I  believe,  would  like  it,”  he  added  care¬ 
lessly,  but  Rob  had  turned  away.  Dick  went  after 
him. 

“  I  have  told  you  this,”  he  said,  “  because,  as  you 
knew  the  other  man,  it  had  to  be  done,  but  we  don’t 
like  it  spoken  of.” 

“  I  shall  not  speak  of  it,”  said  miserable  Rob. 

He  would  have  liked  to  be  tearing  through  London 
again,  but  as  that  was  not  possible  he  sought  a  soli¬ 
tary  seat  by  the  door.  Before  he  reached  it  his  mood 
changed.  What  was  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  after  all, 
that  he  should  be  frightened  at  him  ?  He  was  merely 
a  baronet.  An  impostor  who  could  never  have  passed 
for  a  journalist  had  succeeded  in  passing  for  Dow¬ 
ton.  Journalism  was  the  noblest  of  all  professions, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


207 


and  Rob  was  there  representing  it.  The  seat  of 
honor  at  the  Symphonia  was  next  to  Mary  Abinger, 
and  the  baronet  had  held  it  too  long  already.  Instead 
of  sulking,  Rob  approached  the  throne  like  one  who 
had  a  right  to  be  there.  Sir  Clement  had  risen  for 
a  moment  to  put  down  Mary’s  cup,  and  when  he 
returned  Rob  was  in  his  chair,  with  no  immediate 
intention  of  getting  out  of  it.  The  baronet  frowned, 
which  made  Rob  say  quite  a  number  of  bright  things 
to  Miss  Abinger.  When  two  men  are  in  love  with 
the  same  young  lady,  one  of  them  must  be  worsted. 
Rob  saw  that  it  was  better  to  be  the  other  one. 

The  frightfully  bohemian  people  at  the  Symphonia 
remained  there  even  later  than  eleven  o’clock,  but 
the  rooms  thinned  before  then,  and  Dick’s  party  were 
ready  to  go  by  half-past  ten.  Rob  was  now  very 
sharp.  It  did  not  escape  his  notice  that  the  gentle¬ 
men  were  bringing  the  ladies’  cloaks,  and  he  calmly 
made  up  his  mind  to  help  Mary  Abinger  on  with 
hers.  To  his  annoyance,  Sir  Clement  was  too  quick 
for  him.  The  baronet  was  in  the  midst  of  them  with 
the  three  ladies’  cloaks,  just  as  Rob  wondered  where 
he  would  have  to  go  to  find  them.  Nell’s  cloak  Sir 
Clement  handed  to  Dick,  but  he  kept  Mary’s  on  his 
arm  while  he  assisted  Mrs.  Meredith  into  hers.  It 
was  a  critical  moment.  All  would  be  over  in  five 
seconds. 

“  Allow  me,”  said  Rob. 

With  apparent  coolness  he  took  Mary’s  cloak  from 


208 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


the  baronet’s  arm.  He  had  not  been  used  to  saying 
“  Allow  me,”  and  his  face  was  white,  but  he  was  de¬ 
termined  to  go  on  with  this  thing. 

“Take  my  arm,”  he  said  to  Mary,  as  they  joined 
the  crowd  that  swayed  toward  the  door.  After  he 
said  it  he  saw  that  he  had  spoken  with  an  air  of  pro¬ 
prietorship,  but  he  was  not  sorry.  Mary  did  it. 

It  took  them  some  time  to  reach  their  cab,  and  on 
the  way  Mary  asked  Rob  a  question. 

“I  gave  you  something  once,”  she  said,  “but  I  sup¬ 
pose  you  lost  it  long  ago.” 

Rob  reddened,  for  he  had  been  sadly  puzzled  to 
know  what  had  become  of  his  Christmas  card. 

“  I  have  it  still,”  he  answered  at  last. 

“  Oh,”  said  Mary  coldly ;  and  at  once  Rob  felt  a 
chill  pass  through  him.  It  was  true,  after  all,  that 
Miss  Abinger  could  be  an  icicle  on  occasion. 

Rob,  having  told  a  lie,  deserved  no  mercy,  and  got 
none.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  Mary  might  have 
thawed  a  little  had  she  known  that  it  was  only  a  lie. 
She  thought  that  Rob  was  not  aware  of  his  loss.  A 
man  taking  fickleness  as  the  comparative  degree  of  an 
untruth  is  perhaps  only  what  may  be  looked  for,  but 
one  does  not  expect  it  from  a  woman.  Probably  the 
lights  had  blinded  Mary. 

Rob  had  still  an  opportunity  of  righting  himself, 
but  he  did  not  take  it. 

“  Then  you  did  mean  the  card  for  me,”  he  said,  in 
foolish  exultation ;  “  when  I  found  it  on  the  walk  I 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  209 

was  not  certain  that  you  liad  not  merely  dropped  it  by 
accident.” 

Alas,  for  the  fatuity  of  man!  Mary  looked  up  in 
icy  surprise. 

“What  card?”  she  said.  “I  don’t  know  wnat  you 
are  talking  about.” 

“Don’t  you  remember?”  asked  Bob,  very  much  re¬ 
quiring  to  be  sharpened  again. 

He  looked  so  woe-begone  that  Mary  nearly  had  pity 
on  him.  She  knew,  however,  that,  if  it  was  not  for 
her  sex,  men  would  never  learn  anything. 

“No,”  she  replied,  and  turned  to  talk  to  Sir  Clement. 

Rob  walked  home  from  the  Langham  that  night  with 
Dick,  and,  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  two  Sir 
Clements,  he  was  telling  himself  that  he  had  climbed 
his  hill  valiantly,  only  to  topple  over  when  he  neared 
the  top.  Before  he  went  to  bed  he  had  an  article  to 
finish  for  the  Wire ,  and,  while  he  wrote,  he  pondered 
over  the  ways  of  woman — which,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  is  a  droll  thing  to  do. 

Mr.  Meredith  had  noticed  Rob’s  dejection  at  the 
hotel,  and  remarked  to  Nell’s  mother  that  he  thought 
Mary  was  very  stiff  to  Angus.  Mrs.  Meredith  looked 
sadly  at  her  husband  in  reply. 

“You  think  so,”  she  said,  mournfully  shaking  her 
head  at  him,  “and  so  does  Richard  Abinger.  Mr. 
Angus  is  as  blind  as  the  rest  of  you.” 

“  I  don’t  understand,”  said  Mr.  Meredith,  with  much 
curiosity. 


14 


210 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Nor  do  they,”  replied  his  wife  contemptuously; 
“  there  are  no  men  so  stupid,  I  think,  as  the  clever 
ones.” 

She  could  have  preached  a  sermon  that  night,  with 
the  stupid  sex  for  her  text. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  HOUSEBOAT  “TAWNY  OWL.” 

“  Mr.  Angus,  what  is  an  egotist  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  you  know,  Miss  Meredith  ?  ” 

“Well,  I  know  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  hut  not 
precisely.” 

“  An  egotist  is  a  person  who — but  why  do  you  want 
to  know  ?  ” 

“  Because  just  now  Mr.  Abinger  asked  me  what  I 
was  thinking  of,  and  when  I  said  ‘  of  nothing,’  he  called 
me  an  egotist.” 

“Ah!  that  kind  of  egotist  is  one  whose  thoughts 
are  too  deep  for  utterance.” 

It  was  twilight.  Rob  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  house¬ 
boat  Tawny  Owl ,  looking  down  at  Kell,  who  sat  in  the 
stern,  her  mother  beside  her,  amid  a  blaze  of  Chinese 
lanterns.  Dick  lay  near  them,  prone,  as  he  had  fallen 
from  a  hammock  whose  one  flaw  was  that  it  gave  way 
when  any  one  got  into  it.  Mr.  Meredith,  looking  out 
from  one  of  the  saloon  windows  across  the  black  water 
that  was  now  streaked  with  glistening  silver,  wondered 
whether  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  Mary,  in  a  little 


212 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


blue  nautical  jacket  with  a  cap  to  match,  lay  back  in  a 
camp-chair  on  deck  with  a  silent  banjo  in  her  hands. 
Rob  was  brazening  it  out  in  flannels,  and  had  been  at 
such  pains  to  select  colors  to  suit  him  that  the  effect 
was  atrocious.  He  had  spent  several  afternoons  at 
Molesey  during  the  three  weeks  the  Tawny  Owl  had 
lain  there,  but  this  time  he  was  to  remain  overnight  at 
the  Island  Hotel. 

The  Tawny  Owl  was  part  of  the  hoop  of  houseboats 
that  almost  girded  Tagg’s  Island,  and  lights  sailed 
through  the  trees,  telling  of  launches  moving  to  their 
moorings  near  the  ferry.  Now  and  again  there  was 
the  echo  of  music  from  a  distant  houseboat.  For  a 
moment  the  water  was  loquacious  as  dingeys  or  punts 
shot  past.  Canadian  canoes,  the  ghosts  that  haunt 
the  Thames  by  night,  lifted  their  heads  out  of  the 
river,  gaped,  and  were  gone.  An  osier  wand  dipped 
into  the  water  under  a  weight  of  swallows,  all  going  to 
bed  together.  The  boy  on  the  next  houseboat  kissed 
his  hand  to  a  broom  on  board  the  Tawny  Old,  taking 
it  for  Mrs.  Meredith’s  servant,  and  then  retired  to  his 
kitchen  smiling.  From  the  boat-house  across  the  river 
came  the  monotonous  tap  of  a  hammer.  A  reed- 
warbler  rushed  through  his  song.  There  was  a  soft 
splashing  along  the  bank. 

“  There  was  once  a  literary  character,”  Dick  mur¬ 
mured,  “who  said  that  to  think  of  nothing  was  an 
impossibility,  but  he  lived  before  the  days  of  house¬ 
boats.  I  came  here  a  week  ago  to  do  some  high 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


213 


thinking,  and  I  believe  I  have  only  managed  four 
thoughts — first,  that  the  cow  on  the  island  is  an  irate 
cow;  second,  that  in  summer  the  sun  shines  brightly  ; 
third,  that  the  trouble  of  lighting  a  cigar  is  almost  as 
great  as  the  pleasure  of  smoking  it ;  and  fourth,  that 
swans — the  fourth  thought  referred  to  swans,  hut  it 
has  slipped  my  memory.” 

He  yawned  like  a  man  glad  to  get  to  the  end  of  his 
sentence,  or  sorry  that  he  had  begun  it. 

“But  I  thought,”  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  “that  the 
reason  you  walk  round  and  round  the  island  by  your¬ 
self  so  frequently  is  because  you  can  think  out  arti¬ 
cles  on  it  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  Dick  answered;  “the  island  looks  like  a 
capital  place  to  think  on,  and  I  always  start  off  on 
my  round  meaning  to  think  hard.  After  that  all  is  a 
blank  till  I  am  back  at  the  Tawny  Owl ,  when  T  re¬ 
member  that  I  have  forgotten  to  think.” 

“  Will  ought  to  enjoy  this,”  remarked  Yell. 

“  That  is  my  brother,  Mr.  Angus,”  Mary  said  to 
Rob ;  “  he  is  to  spend  part  of  his  holidays  here.” 

“  I  remember  him,”  Rob  answered,  smiling.  Mary 
blushed,  however,  remembering  that  the  last  time 
Will  and  Greybrooke  met  Rob  there  had  been  a  little 
scene. 

“  He  will  enjoy  the  fishing,”  said  Hick.  “  I  have 
only  fished  myself  three  or  four  times,  and  I  am  con¬ 
fident  I  hooked  a  minnow  yesterday.” 

“1  saw  a  little  boy?”  Nell  said,,  “fishing  from  the 


214 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


island  to-day,  and  his  mother  had  strapped  him  to  a 
tree  in  case  he  might  fall  in.” 

“  When  I  saw  your  young  brother  at  Silchester,” 
Rob  said  to  Mary,  “he  had  a  schoolmate  with 
him.” 

“Ah,  yes,”  Dick  said;  “that  was  the  man  who 
wanted  to  horsewhip  you,  you  know.” 

“  I  thought  he  and  Miss  Meredith  were  great 
friends,”  Rob  retorted.  He  sometimes  wondered  how 
much  Dick  .cared  for  Hell. 

“  It  was  only  the  young  gentleman’s  good-nature,” 
Abinger  explained,  while  Nell  drew  herself  up  in¬ 
dignantly  ;  “he  found  that  he  had  to  give  up  either 
Nell  or  a  cricket  match,  and  so  Nell  was  reluctantly 
dropped.” 

“That  was  not  how  you  spoke,”  Nell  said  to  Dick  in 
a  low  voice,  “  when  I  told  you  all  about  him,  poor  hoy, 
in  your  chambers.” 

“  You  promised  to  be  a  sister  to  him,  I  think,”  re¬ 
marked  Abinger.  “Ah,  Nell,  it  is  not  a  safe  plan 
that.  How  many  brothers  have  you  now  ?  ” 

Dick  held  up  his  hand  for  Mary’s  banjo,  and,  set¬ 
tling  himself  comfortably  in  a  corner,  twanged  and 
sang,  while  the  lanterns  caught  myriads  of  flies,  and 
the  bats  came  and  went. 

When  Coelebs  was  a  bolder  blade, 

And  ladies  fair  were  coy, 

His  search  was  for  a  wife,  he  said, 

The  time  X  was  a  boy. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


215 


But  Coelebs  now  has  slothful  grown 
(1  learn  this  from  her  mother)  : 

Instead  of  making  her  his  own, 

He  asks  to  be  her  brother. 

Last  night  I  saw  her  smooth  his  brow 
He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her; 

They  understood  each  other  now — 
She’s  going  to  be  his  sister. 

Some  say  he  really  does  propose 
And  means  to  gain  or  lose  all, 

And  that  the  new  arrangement  goes 
To  soften  her  refusal. 

He  talks  so  wild  of  broken  hearts, 

Of  futures  that  she’ll  mar, 

He  says  on  Tuesday  he  departs 
For  Cork  or  Zanzibar. 

His  death  he  places  at  her  door, 

Yet  says  he  won’t  resent  it; 

Ah,  well,  he  talked  that  way  before, 
And  very  seldom  meant  it. 

Engagements  now  are  curious  things — 
“  A  kind  of  understandin’ ;  ” 

Although  they  do  not  run  to  rings, 
They’re  good  to  keep  your  hand  in. 

No  rivals  now,  Tom,  Dick  and  Hal : 
They  all  love  one  another, 

For  she’s  a  sister  to  them  all, 

And  every  one’s  her  brother. 

In  former  days  when  men  proposed, 
And  ladies  said  them  No, 

The  laws  that  courtesy  imposed 
Made  lovers  pack  and  go. 

But  now  that  they  may  brothers  be, 

So  changed  the  way  of  men  is, 

That,  having  kissed,  the  swain  and  she 
Kesume  their  game  at  tennis. 


216 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Ah,  Nelly  Meredith,  you  may 
Be  wiser  than  your  mother, 

But  she  knew  what  to  do  when  they 
Proposed  to  be  her  brother. 

Of  these  relations  best  have  none— 

They’ll  only  you  encumber; 

Of  wives  a  man  may  have  but  one, 

Of  sisters  any  number. 

Dick  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Mere¬ 
dith  to  show  her  how  they  make  a  salad  at  the  Wig¬ 
wam,  and  Nell  and  her  father  went  a-fishing  from  the 
bedroom  window.  The  night  was  so  silent  now  that 
Rob  and  Mary  seemed  to  have  it  to  themselves.  A 
canoe  in  a  blaze  of  colored  light  drifted  past  without  a 
sound.  The  grass  on  the  bank  parted,  and  water-rats 
peeped  out.  All  at  once  Mary  had  nothing  to  say,  and 
Rob  shook  on  his  stool.  The  moon  was  out  looking  at 
them. 

“  Oh !  ”  Mary  cried,  as  something  dipped  suddenly  in 
the  water  near  them. 

“  It  was  only  a  dabchick,”  Rob  guessed,  looking 
over  the  rail.  ^ 

“  What  is  a  dabchick? ”  asked  Mary. 

Rob  did  not  tell  her.  She  had  not  the  least  desire 
to  know. 

In  the  river,  on  the  opposite  side  from  where  the 
Tawny  Owl  lay,  a  stream  drowns  itself.  They  had 
not  known  of  its  existence  before,  but  it  was  roaring 
like  a  lasher  to  them  now.  Mary  shuddered  slightly, 
turning  her  face  to  the  island,  and  Rob  took  a  great 
breath  as  he  looked  at  her.  His  hand  held  her  brown 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


217 


sunshade  that  was  ribbed  with  velvet,  the  sunshade 
with  the  preposterous  handle  that  Mary  held  upside 
down.  Other  ladies  carried  their  sunshades  so,  and 
Rob  resented  it.  Her  back  was  toward  him,  and  he 
sat  still,  gazing  at  the  loose  blue  jacket  that  only 
reached  her  waist.  It  was  such  a  slender  waist  that 
Rob  trembled  for  it. 

The  trees  that  hung  over  the  houseboat  were  black, 
but  the  moon  made  a  fairyland  of  the  sward  beyond. 
Mary  could  only  see  the  island  between  heavy  branches, 
but  she  looked  straight  before  her  until  tears  dimmed 
her  eyes.  Who  would  dare  to  seek  the  thoughts  of  a 
girl  at  such  a  moment  ?  Rob  moved  nearer  her.  Her 
blue  cap  was  tilted  back,  her  chin  rested  on  the  rail. 
All  that  was  good  in  him  was  astir  when  she  turned 
and  read  his  face. 

“  I  think  I  shall  go  down  now,”  Mary  said,  becoming 
less  pale  as  she  spoke.  Rob’s  eyes  followed  her  as  she 
moved  toward  the  ladder. 

“Not  yet,”  he  called  after  her,  and  could  say  no 
more.  It  was  always  so  when  they  were  alone,  and  he 
made  himself  suffer  for  it  afterward. 

Mary  stood  irresolutely  at  the  top  of  the  ladder. 
She  would  not  turn  back,  but  she  did  not  descend. 
Mr.  Meredith  was  fishing  lazily  from  the  lower  deck, 
and  there  was  a  murmur  of  voices  in  the  saloon.  On 
the  road  running  parallel  to  the  river  traps  and  men 
were  shadows  creeping  along  to  Hampton.  Lights 


218 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


were  going  out  there.  Mary  looked  up  the  stretch  of 
water  and  sighed. 

“  Was  there  ever  so  beautiful  a  night  ?  ”  she 
said. 

“Yes,”  said  Rob,  at  her  elbow,  “once  at  Dome  Castle, 
the  night  I  saw  you  first.” 

“  I  don’t  remember,”  said  Mary  hastily,  but  without 
going  down  the  ladder. 

“I  might  never  have  met  you,”  Rob  continued 
grimly,  “  if  some  man  in  Silchester  had  not  murdered 
his  wife.” 

Mary  started  and  looked  up  at  him.  Until  she 
ceased  to  look  he  could  not  go  on. 

“The  murder,”  he  explained,  “was  of  more  impor¬ 
tance  than  Colonel  Abinger’s  dinner,  and  so  I  was  sent 
to  the  castle.  It  is  rather  curious  to  trace  these  things 
back  a  step.  The  woman  enraged  her  husband  into 
striking  her,  because  she  had  not  prepared  his  supper. 
Instead  of  doing  that  she  had  been  gossiping  with  a 
neighbor,  who  would  not  have  had  time  for  gossip  had 
she  not  been  laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle.  It  came 
out  in  the  evidence  that  this  woman  had  hurt  herself 
by'  slipping  on  a  marble,  so  that  I  might  never  have 
seen  you  had  not  two  boys,  whom  neither  of  us  ever 
heard  of,  challenged  each  other  to  a  game  at  marbles.” 

“  It  was  stranger  that  we  should  meet  again  in  Lon¬ 
don,”  Mary  said. 

“No,”  Rob  answered,  “the  way  we  met  was  strange, 
but  I  was  expecting  you.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  219 

Mary  pondered  how  she  should  take  this,  and  then 
pretended  not  to  hear  it. 

“Was  it  not  rather  ‘The  Scorn  of  Scorns’  that 
made  us  know  each  other  ?”  she  asked. 

“I  knew  you  after  I  read  it  a  second  time,”  he 
said ;  “  I  have  got  that  copy  of  it  still.” 

“  You  said  you  had  the  card.” 

“  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand,”  Rob  an¬ 
swered,  “how  I  lost  that  card.  But,”  he  added 
sharply,  “  how  do  you  know  that  I  lost  it  ?  ” 

Mary  glanced  up  again. 

“I  hate  being  asked  questions,  Mr.  Angus,”  she 
said,  sweetly. 

“  Do  you  remember,”  Rob  went  on,  “  saying  in 
that  book  that  men  were  not  to  be  trusted  until  they 
reached  their  second  childhood?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Mary  replied,  laughing,  “that 
they  are  to  be  trusted  even  then.” 

“I  should  think,”  said  Rob,  rather  anxiously, 
“  that  a  woman  might  as  well  marry  a  man  in  his 
first  childhood  as  in  his  second.  Surely  the  gold¬ 
en  mean - ”  Rob  paused.  He  was  just  twenty- 

seven. 

“  We  should  strike  the  golden  mean,  you  think?” 
asked  Mary  demurely.  “But  you  see  it  is  of  such 
short  duration.” 

After  that  there  was  such  a  long  pause  that  Mary 
could  easily  have  gone  down  the  ladder  had  she 
wanted  to  do  so. 


220 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  I  am  glad  that  you  and  Dick  are  such  friends,” 
she  said  at  last. 

“  Why  ?  ”  asked  Rob  quickly. 

“  Oh,  well,”  said  Mary. 

“  He  has  been  the  best  friend  I  have  ever  made.” 
Rob  continued  warmly,  “though  he  says  our  only 
point  in  common  is  a  hatred  of  rice  pudding.” 

“  He  told  me,”  said  Mary,  “  that  you  write  on  poli¬ 
tics  in  the  Wire” 

“  I  do  a  little  now,  but  I  have  never  met  any  one 
yet  who  admitted  that  he  had  read  my  articles.  Even 
your  brother  won’t  go  so  far  as  that.” 

“  I  have  read  several  of  them,”  said  Mary. 

“  Have  you  ?  ”  Rob  exclaimed,  like  a  big  boy. 

“Yes,”  Mary  answered  severely;  “but  I  don’t 
agree  with  them.  I  am  a  Conservative,  you  know.” 

She  pursed  up  her  mouth  complacently  as  she 
spoke,  and  Rob  fell  back  a  step  to  prevent  his  going 
a  step  closer.  He  could  hear  Mr.  Meredith’s  line 
tearing  the  water.  The  boy  on  the  next  houseboat 
was  baling  the  dingey,  and  whistling  a  doleful  ditty 
between  each  canful. 

“  There  will  never  be  such  a  night  again,”  Rob 
said  in  a  melancholy  voice.  Then  he  waited  for 
Mary  to  ask  why,  when  he  would  have  told  her,  but 
she  did  not  ask. 

“  At  least  not  to  me,”  he  continued,  after  a  pause, 
“for  I  am  not  likely  to  be  here  again.  But  there 
may  be  many  such  nights  to  you.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


221 


Mary  was  unbuttoning  her  gloves  and  then  button¬ 
ing  them  again.  There  is  something  uncanny  about 
a  woman  who  has  a  chance  to  speak  and  does  not 
take  it. 

“  I  am  glad  to  hear,”  said  Rob,  “  that  my  being 
away  will  make  no  difference  to  you.” 

A  light  was  running  along  the  road  to  Hampton 
Court,  and  Mary  watched  it. 

“  Are  you  glad  ?”  asked  Rob  desperately. 

“You  said  I  was,”  answered  Mary,  without  turn¬ 
ing  her  head.  Dick  was  thumming  the  banjo  below. 
Her  hand  touched  a  camp-chair,  and  Rob  put  his  over 
it.  He  would  have  liked  to  stand  like  that  and  talk 
about  things  in  general  now. 

“  Mary,”  said  Rob. 

The  boy  ceased  to  whistle.  All  nature  in  that 

quarter  was  paralyzed,  except  the  tumble  of  water 

# 

across  the  river.  Mary  withdrew  her  hand,  but  said 
nothing.  Rob  held  his  breath.  He  had  not  even  the 
excuse  of  having  spoken  impulsively,  for  he  had  been 
meditating  saying  it  for  weeks. 

By  and  by  the  world  began  to  move  again.  The 
boy  whistled.  A  swallow  tried  another  twig.  A  moor¬ 
hen  splashed  in  the  river.  They  had  thought  it  over, 
and  meant  to  let  it  pass. 

“  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  ”  Rob  asked. 

Mary  nodded  her  head,  but  did  not  speak.  Sud¬ 
denly  Rob  started. 

“  You  are  crying,”  he  said. 


222 


WREN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  No,  I’m  not,”  said  Mary,  looking  up  now. 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  face  that  made 
Rob  shake.  He  was  so  near  her  that  his  hands  touched 
her  jacket.  At  that  moment  there  was  a  sound 
of  feet  on  the  plank  that  communicated  between 
the  Tawny  Owl  and  the  island,  and  Dick  called  out : 

“  You  people  up  there,  are  you  coming  once  round 
the  island  before  you  have  something  to  eat  ?  ” 

Rob  muttered  a  reply  that  Dick  fortunately  did  not 
catch,  but  Mary  answered,  “  Yes,”  and  they  descended 
the  ladder. 

“You  had  better  put  a  shawl  over  your  shoulders,” 
said  Rob  in  rather  a  lordly  tone. 

“  No,”  Mary  answered,  thrusting  away  the  shawl  he 
produced  from  the  saloon ;  “  a  wrap  on  a  night  like 
this  would  be  absurd.” 

Something  caught  in  her  throat  at  that  moment, 
and  she  coughed.  Rob  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

“You  had  better,”  he  said,  putting  the  shawl  over 
her  shoulders. 

“  No,”  said  Mary,  flinging  it  off. 

“Yes,”  said  Rob,  putting  it  on  again. 

Mary  stamped  her  foot. 

“  How  dare  you,  Mr.  Angus  ?  ”  she  exclaimed. 

Rob’s  chest  heaved. 

“You  must  do  as  you  are  told,”  he  said. 

Mary  looked  at  him  while  he  looked  at  her,  but  she 
did  not  take  off  the  shawl  again,  and  that  was  the 
great  moment  of  Rob’s  life. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


223 


The  others  had  gone  on  before.  Although  it  was 
a  white  night  the  plank  was  dark  in  shadow,  and  as 
she  stepped  off  it  she  slipped  hack.  Rob’s  arm  went 
round  her  for  a  moment.  They  walked  round  the 
•island  together  behind  the  others,  but  neither  uttered 
a  word.  Rob  was  afraid  even  to  look  at  her,  so  he  did 
not  see  that  Mary  looked  once  or  twice  at  him. 

Long  after  he  was  supposed  to  he  in  the  hotel  Rob 
was  still  walking  round  the  island,  with  no  one  to  see 
him  hut  the  cow.  All  the  Chinese  lanterns  were  out 
now,  hut  red  window-hlinds  shone  warm  in  several 
houseboats,  and  a  terrier  barked  at  his  footsteps.  The 
grass  was  silver-tipped,  as  in  an  enchanted  island,  and 
the  impatient  fairies  might  only  have  been  waiting  till 
he  was  gone.  He  was  wondering  if  she  was  offended. 
While  he  paced  the  island  she  might  be  vowing  never 
to  look  at  him  again,  but  perhaps  she  was  only  think¬ 
ing  that  he  was  very  much  improved. 

At  last  Rob  wandered  to  the  hotel,  and  reaching  his 
bedroom  sat  down  on  a  chair  to  think  it  out  again  by 
candle-light.  He  rose  and  opened  the  window.  There 
was  a  notice  over  the  mantelpiece  announcing  that 
smoking  was  not  allowed  in  the  bedrooms,  and  having 
read  it  thoughtfully  he  filled  his  pipe.  A  piece  of 
crumpled  paper  lay  beneath  the  dressing-table,  and  he 
lifted  it  up  to  make  a  spill  of  it.  It  was  part  of  an 
envelope,  and  it  floated  out  of  Rob’s  hand  as  he  read 
the  address  in  Mary  Abinger’s  handwriting,  “  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent  Dowton,  Island  Hotel.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART. 

A  punt  and  a  rowing-boat  were  racing  lazily  toward 
Sunbury  on  a  day  so  bright  that  you  might  have  passed 
women  with  their  hair  in  long  curls  and  forgiven 
them. 

“  I  say,  Dick,”  said  one  of  the  scullers,  44  are  they 
engaged  ? ” 

Will  was  the  speaker,  and  in  asking  the  question 
he  caught  a  crab.  Mary,  with  her  yellow  sleeves 
turned  up  at  the  wrist,  a  great  straw  hat  on  her  head, 
ran  gayly  after  her  pole,  and  the  punt  jerked  past. 
If  there  are  any  plain  girls,  let  them  take  to  punting 
and  be  beautiful. 

Dick,  who  was  paddling  rather  than  pulling  stroke, 
turned  round  on  his  young  brother  sharply. 

“  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  ”  he  asked,  speaking  low, 
so  that  the  other  occupants  of  the  boat  should  not 
hear  him,  “  Mary  and  Dowton  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Will,  44  Mary  and  Angus.  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  her.” 

They  were  bound  for  a  picnicking  resort  up  the 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


225 


river ;  Mrs.  Meredith,  Mary,  and  Sir  Clement  in  the 
punt,  and  the  others  in  the  boat.  If  Rob  was  en¬ 
gaged  he  took  it  gloomily.  lie  sat  in  the  stern  with 
Mr.  Meredith,  while  ISTell  hid  herself  away  beneath  a 
many-colored  umbrella  in  the  prow;  and  when  he 
steered  the  boat  into  a  gondola,  he  only  said  vacantly 
to  its  occupants:  “It  is  nothing  at  all,”  as  if  they 
had  run  into  him.  ISTell’s  father  said  something  about 
not  liking  the  appearance  of  the  sky,  and  Rob  looked 
at  him  earnestly  for  such  a  length  of  time  before 
replying  that  Mr.  Meredith  was  taken  aback.  At 
times  the  punt  came  alongside,  and  Mary  addressed 
every  one  in  the  boat  except  Rob.  The  only  person 
in  the  punt  who  Rob  never  looked  at  was  Mary.  Dick 
watched  them  uneasily,  and  noticed  that  once,  when 
Mary  nearly  followed  her  pole  into  the  water,  Rob, 
who  seemed  to  be  looking  in  the  opposite  direction, 
was  the  first  to  see  what  had  happened.  Then  Dick 
pulled  so  savagely  that  he  turned  the  boat  round. 

That  morning  at  breakfast  in  his  chambers  Rob 
had  no  thought  of  spending  the  day  on  the  river.  He 
had  to  be  at  the  Wire  office  at  ten  o’clock  in  the  even¬ 
ing,  and  during  the  day  he  meant  to  finish  one  of  the 
many  articles  which  he  still  wrote  for  other  journals 
that  would  seldom  take  them.  The  knowledge  that 
Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  been  to  Molesey  disquieted 
him,  chiefly  because  Mary  Abiuger  had  said  nothing 
about  it.  Having  given  himself  fifty  reasons  for  her 

reticence,  he  pushed  them  from  him,  and  vowed 

15 


226 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


wearily  that  he  would  go  to  the  houseboat  no  more. 
Then  Dick  walked  in  to  suggest  that  they  might  run 
down  for  an  hour  or  two  to  Molesey,  and  Rob  agreed 
at  once.  He  shaped  out  in  the  train  a  subtle  question 
about  Sir  Clement  that  he  intended  asking  Mary,  but 
on  reaching  the  plank  he  saw  her  feeding  the  swans, 
with  the  baronet  by  her  side.  Rob  felt  like  a  con¬ 
jurer  whose  trick  has  not  worked  properly.  Giving 
himself  just  a  half  a  minute  to  reflect  that  it  was  all 
over,  he  affected  the  coldly  courteous,  and  smiled  in  a 
way  that  was  meant  to  be  heart-rending.  Mary  did 
not  mind  that,  but  it  annoyed  her  to  see  the  band  of 
his  necktie  slipping  over  his  collar. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  S  unbury  Regatta,  but  the 
party  from  the  Tawny  Owl  twisted  past  the  racers, 
leaving  Dick,  who  wanted  a  newspaper,  behind.  When 
he  rejoined  them  beyond  the  village,  the  boat  was  tcrw- 
ing  the  punt. 

“  Why,”  said  Dick,  in  some  astonishment  to  Rob, 
who  was  rowing  now,  “  I  did  not  know  you  could 
scull  like  that.” 

“  I  have  been  practicing  a  little,”  answered  Rob. 

“  When  he  came  down  here  the  first  time,”  Mrs. 
Meredith  explained  to  Sir  Clement,  “  he  did  not  know 
how  to  hold  an  oar.  I  am  afraid  he  is  one  of  those 
men  who  like  to  be  best  at  everything.” 

“  He  certainly  knows  how  to  scull  now,”  admitted 
the  baronet,  beginning  to  think  that  Rob  was  per¬ 
haps  a  dangerous  man.  Sir  Clement  was  a  manly 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  227 

gentleman,  but  his  politics  were  that  people  should  not 
c/iuib  out  of  the  station  they  were  born  into. 

“No,”  Dick  said,  in  answer  to  a  question  from  Mr. 
Meredith,  “  I  could  only  get  a  local  paper.  The  woman 
seemed  surprised  at  my  thinking  she  would  take  in  the 
Scalping  Knife  or  the  Wire,  and  said,  ‘We’ve  got  a 
paper  of  our  own.’  ” 

“  Read  out  the  news  to  us,  Richard,”  suggested  Mrs. 
Meredith.  Dick  hesitated. 

“  Here,  Will,”  he  said  to  his  brother,  “  you  got  that 
squeaky  voice  of  yours  specially  to  proclaim  the  news 
from  a  boat  to  a  punt  ten  yards  distant.  Angus  is 
longing  to  pull  us  up  the  river  unaided.” 

Will  turned  the  paper  round  and  round. 

“  Here  is  a  funny  thing,”  he  bawled  out,  “  about  a 
stick  :  ‘  A  curious  story,  says  a  London  correspondent, 
is  going  the  round  of  the  clubs  to-day  about  the  walk¬ 
ing-stick  of  a  well-known  member  of  Parliament, 
whose  name  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  mention.  The  story 
has  not,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  yet  appeared  in  print, 
and  it  conveys  a  lesson  to  all  persons  who  carry  walk¬ 
ing-sticks  with  knobs  for  handles,  which  generate  a 
peculiar  disease  in  the  palm  of  the  hand.  The  member 
of  Parliament  referred  to,  with  whom  I  am  on  inti¬ 
mate  terms - ’  ”  Rob  looked  at  Dick,  and  they  both 

groaned. 

“  My  stick  again,”  murmured  Rob. 

“  Read  something  else,”  cried  Dick,  shivering. 


228 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Eh,  what  is  wrong?”  asked  Mr.  Meredith. 

“You  must  know,”  said  Dick,  “that  the  first  time 
I  met  Angus  he  told  me  imprudently  some  foolish 
story  about  a  stick  that  bred  a  disease  in  the  owner’s 
hand,  owing  to  his  pressing  so  heavily  on  the  ball  it 
had  by  way  of  a  handle.  I  touched  the  story  up  a 
little,  and  made  half-a-guinea  out  of  it.  Since  then 
that  note  has  been  turning  up  in  a  new  dress  in  the 
most  unlikely  places.  First  the  London  correspond¬ 
ents  swooped  down  on  it,  and  telegraphed  it  all  over 
the  country  as  something  that  had  happened  to  well- 
known  Cabinet  Ministers.  It  appeared  in  the  Paris 
Figaro  as  a  true  story  about  Sir  Gladstone,  and  soon 
afterward  it  was  across  the  Channel  as  a  reminiscence 
of  Thiers.  Having  done  another  tour  of  the  prov¬ 
inces  it  was  taken  to  America  by  a  lecturer,  who  ex- 
hibited  the  stick.  Next  it  traveled  the  Continent, 
until  it  was  sent  home  again  by  Paterfamilias  Abroad, 
writing  to  the  Times ,  who  said  that  the  man  who 
owned  the  stick  was  a  well-known  Alpine  guide. 
Since  then  we  have  heard  of  it  fitfully  as  doing  well 
in  Melbourne  and  Arkansas.  It  figured  in  the  last 
volume,  or  rather  two  volumes,  of  autobiography 
published  ;  and  now,  you  see,  it  is  going  the  round  of 
the  clubs  again,  preparatory  to  starting  on  another 
tour.  I  wish  you  had  kept  your  stick  to  yourself, 
Angus.” 

“  That  story  will  never  die,”  Rob  said,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction.  “  It  will  go  round  and  round  the  world 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  229 

till  the  crack  of  doom.  Our  children’s  children  will 
tell  it  to  each  other.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Dick,  “  and  say  it  happened  to  a  friend 
of  theirs.” 

A  field  falls  into  the  river  above  Sunbury,  in  which 
there  is  a  clump  of  trees  of  which  many  boating  par¬ 
ties  know.  Under  the  shadow  of  these  Mrs.  Mere¬ 
dith  cast  a  table-cloth  and  pegged  it  down  with  salt¬ 
cellars. 

“  As  we  are  rather  in  a  hurry,”  she  said  to  the  gen¬ 
tlemen,  “  I  should  prefer  you  not  to  help  us.” 

Rob  wandered  to  the  river-side  with  Will,  who 
would  have  liked  to  knowT  whether  he  could  jump  a 
gate  without  putting  his  hands  on  it ;  and  the  other 
men  leaned  against  the  trees,  wondering  a  little,  per¬ 
haps,  why  ladies  enjoy  in  the  summer-time  making 
chairs  and  tables  of  the  ground. 

Rob  was  recovering  from  his  scare,  and  made  friends 
with  Mary’s  young  brother.  By  particular  request  he 
not  only  leaped  the  gate  but  lifted  it  off  its  hinges, 
and  this  feat  of  strength  so  impressed  Will  that  he 
would  have  brought  the  whole  party  down  to  see  it 
done.  Will  was  as  fond  of  Mary  as  a  proper  respect 
for  himself  would  allow,  but  he  thought  she  would  be 
a  lucky  girl  if  she  got  a  fellow  who  could  play  with  a 
heavy  gate  like  that. 

Being  a  sharp  boy,  Will  noticed  a  cloud  settle  on 
Rob’s  face,  and  looking  towards  the  dump  of  trees,  he 
observed  that  Mary  and  the  baronet  were  no  longer 


230 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


there.  In  the  next  field  two  figures  were  disappearing, 
the  taller,  a  man  in  a  tennis  jacket,  carrying  a  pail. 
Sir  Clement  had  been  sent  for  water,  and  Mary  had 
gone  with  him  to  show  him  the  spring.  Rob  stared 
after  them  ;  and  if  Will  could  have  got  hold  of  Mary 
he  would  have  shaken  her  for  spoiling  everything. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  meditating  sending  some  one  to 
the  spring  to  show  them  the  way  back,  when  Sir 
Clement  and  Mary  again  came  into  sight.  They  did 
not  seem  to  be  saying  much,  yet  were  so  engrossed 
that  they  zigzagged  toward  the  rest  of  the  party  like 
persons  seeking  their  destination  in  a  mist.  Just  as 
they  reached  the  trees  Mary  looked  up  so  softly  at  her 
companion  that  Rob  turned  away  in  an  agony. 

“  It  is  a  long  way  to  the  spring,”  were  Mary’s  first 
words,  as  if  she  expected  to  be  taken  to  task  for  their 
lengthened  absence. 

“  So  it  seems,”  said  Dick. 

The  baronet  crossed  with  the  pail  to  Mrs.  Meredith, 
and  stopped  half-way  like  one  waking  from  a  dream. 
Mrs.  Meredith  held  out  her  hand  for  the  pail,  and  the 
baronet  stammered  with  vexation.  Simultaneously 
the  whole  party  saw  what  was  wrong,  but  Will  only 
was  so  merciless  as  to  put  the  discovery  into  words. 

“  Why,”  cried  the  boy,  pausing  to  whistle  in  the 
middle  of  his  sentence,  “you  have  forgotten  the 
water !  ” 

It  was  true.  The  pail  was  empty.  Sir  Clement 
turned  it  upside  down,  and  made  a  seat  of  it. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


231 


“  I  am  so  sorry,”  lie  said  to  Mrs.  Meredith,  trying 
to  speak  lightly.  “  I  assure  you  I  thought  I  had  filled 
the  pail  at  the  spring.  It  is  entirely  my  fault,  for  I 
told  Miss  Abinger  I  had  done  so.” 

Mary’s  face  was  turned  from  the  others,  so  that 
they  could  not  see  how  she  took  the  incident.  It 
gave  them  so  much  to  think  of  that  Will  was  the 
only  one  of  the  whole  party  who  saw  its  ridiculous 
aspect. 

“Put  it  down  to  sunstroke,  Miss  Meredith,”  the 
baronet  said  to  Nell ;  “  I  shall  never  allow  myself  to 
be  placed  in  a  position  of  trust  again.” 

“Does  that  mean,”  asked  Dick,  “that  you  object 
to  being  sent  back  again  to  the  spring  ?” 

“  Ah,  I  forgot,”  said  Sir  Clement.  “  You  may  de¬ 
pend  on  me  this  time.” 

He  seized  the  pail  once  more,  glad  to  get  away  by 
himself  to  some  place  where  he  could  denounce  his 
stupidity  unheard,  but  Mrs.  Meredith  would  not  let 
him  go.  As  for  Mary,  she  was  looking  so  haughty 
now  that  no  one  would  have  dared  to  mention  the 
pail  again. 

During  the  meal  Dick  felt  compelled  to  talk  so 
much  that  he  was  unusually  dull  company  for  the 
remainder  of  the  week.  The  others  were  only  genial 
now  and  again.  Sir  Clement  sought  in  vain  to 
gather  from  Mary’s  eyes  that  she  had  forgiven  him 
for  making  the  rest  of  the  party  couple  him  and  her 
in  their  thoughts.  Mrs.  Meredith  would  have  liked 


23*2 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


to  take  her  daughter  aside  and  discuss  the  situation, 
and  Nell  was  looking  covertly  at  Rob,  who,  she 
thought,  bore  it  bravely.  Rob  had  lately  learned 
carving  from  a  handbook,  and  was  dissecting  a  fowl, 
murmuring  to  himself,  “  Cut  from  a  to  b  along  the 
line/*^,  taking  care  to  sever  the  wing  at  the  point  ic.” 
Like  all  the  others,  he  thought  that  Mary  had 
promised  to  be  the  baronet’s  wife,  and  Nell’s  heart 
palpitated  for  him  when  she  saw  how  gently  he 
passed  Sir  Clement  the  mustard.  Such  a  load  lay  on 
Rob  that  he  felt  suffocated.  Nell  noticed  indignantly 
that  Mary  was  not  even  “nice”  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  or  at  least  for  several  weeks, 
Miss  Meredith  was  wroth  with  Miss  Abinger.  Mary 
might  have  been  on  the  rack,  but  she  went  on  proudly 
eating  bread  and  chicken.  Relieved  of  his  fears, 
Dick  raged  internally  at  Mary  for  treating  Angus 
cruelly,  and  Nell,  who  had  always  dreaded  lest  things 
should  not  go  as  they  had  gone,  sat  sorrowfully  be¬ 
cause  she  had  not  been  disappointed.  They  all  knew 
how  much  the}7  cared  for  Rob  now,  all  except  Mary 
of  the  stony  heart. 

Sir  Clement  began  to  tell  some  traveler’s  tales, 
omitting  many  things  that  were  creditable  to  his 
bravery,  and  Rob  found  himself  listening  with  a 
show  of  interest,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own  audac¬ 
ity  in  competing  with  such  a  candidate.  By  and  by 
some  members  of  the  little  party  drifted  away  from 
the  others,  and  an  accident  left  Mary  and  Rob  to- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


233 


getlier.  Mary  was  aimlessly  plucking  the  berries 
from  a  twig  in  her  hand,  and  all  the  sign  she  gave  that 
she  knew  of  Rob’s  presence  was  in  not  raising  her 
head.  If  love  is  ever  unselfish  his  was  at  that  moment. 
He  took  a  step  forward,  and  then  Mary,  starting  back, 
looked  round  hurriedly  in  the  direction  of  Sir  Clement. 
What  Rob  thought  was  her  meaning  flashed  through 
him,  and  he  stood  still  in  pain. 

“  I  am  sorry  you  think  so  meanly  of  me,”  he  said, 
and  passed  on.  He  did  not  see  Mary’s  arms  rise  invol¬ 
untarily,  as  if  they  would  call  him  back.  But  even  then 
she  did  not  realize  what  Rob’s  thoughts  were.  A  few 
yards  away  Rob,  moving  blindly,  struck  against  Hick. 

“  Ah,  I  see  Mary  there,”  her  brother  said ;  “  I  want 
to  speak  to  her.  Why,  how  white  you  are,  man  !  ” 

“  Abinger,”  Rob  answered  hoarsely,  “  tell  me.  I 
must  know.  Is  she  engaged  to  Dowton  ?  ” 

Hick  hesitated.  He  felt  sore  for  Rob.  a  Yes,  she 
is,”  he  replied.  “  You  remember  I  spoke  of  this  to  you 
before.”  Then  Hick  moved  on  to  have  it  out  with 
Mary.  She  was  standing  with  the  twig  in  her  hand, 
just  as  Rob  had  left  her. 

“  Mary,”  said  her  brother  bluntly,  “  this  is  too  bad. 
I  would  have  expected  it  from  any  one  sooner  than 
from  you.” 

“  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  ”  asked  Mary  frig¬ 
idly. 

“I  am  talking  about  Angus,  my  friend.  Yes,  you 
may  smile,  but  it  is  not  play  to  him.” 


234 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  What  have  I  clone  to  your  friend  ?  ”  said  Mary, 
looking  Dick  in  the  face. 

“  You  have  crushed  the  life  for  the  time  being  out  of 
as  fine  a  fellow  as  I  ever  knew.  You  might  at  least 
have  amused  yourself  with  some  one  a  little  more 
experienced  in  the  ways  of  women.” 

“  How  dare  you,  Dick  ?  ”  exclaimed  Mary,  stamping 
her  foot.  All  at  once  Dick  saw  that  though  she  spoke 
bravely  her  lips  were  trembling.  A  sudden  fear  seized 
him. 

“  I  presume  that  you  are  engaged  to  Dowton  ?  ”  he 
said,  quickly. 

“  It  is  presumption  certainly,”  replied  Mary. 

“Why,  what  else  could  any  one  think  after  that 
ridiculous  affair  of  the  water  ?  ” 

“I  shall  never  forgive  him  for  that*”  Mary  said, 
flushing. 

“  But  he - ” 

“  No.  Yes,  he  did,  but  we  are  not  engaged.” 

“  You  mean  to  say  that  you  refused  him  ?  ” 

“Yes.” 

Dick  thought  it  over,  tapping  the  while  on  a  tree- 
trunk  like  a  woodpecker. 

“  Why  ?  ”  he  asked  at  last. 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

“You  seemed  exceedingly  friendly,”  said  Dick, 
“  when  you  returned  here  together.” 

“  I  suppose,”  Mary  said,  bitterly,  “  that  the  proper 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


235 


thing  in  the  circumstances  would  have  been  to  wound 
his  feelings  unnecessarily  as  much  as  possible  ?  ” 

“  Forgive  me,  dear,”  Dick  said,  kindly ;  “  of  course 
I  misunderstood — but  this  will  be  a  blow  to  our 
father.” 

Mary  looked  troubled. 

“  I  could  not  marry  him,  you  know,  Dick,”  she  fal¬ 
tered. 

“  Certainly  not,”  Dick  said,  “  if  you  don’t  care  suffi¬ 
ciently  for  him ;  and  yet  he  seems  a  man  that  a  girl 
might  care  for.” 

“  Oh,  he  is,”  Mary  exclaimed.  “  He  was  so  manly 
and  kind  that  I  wanted  to  be  nice  to  him.” 

“You  have  evidently  made  up  your  mind,  sister 
mine,”  Dick  said,  “  to  die  a  spinster.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mary,  with  a  white  face. 

Suddenly  Dick  took  both  her  hands,  and  looked  her 
in  the  face. 

“  Do  you  care  for  any  other  person,  Mary  ?  ”  he  asked 
sharply. 

Mary  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  return  her 
brother’s  gaze.  Her  hands  were  trembling.  She  tried 
to  pull  them  from  him,  but  he  held  her  firmly  until 
she  looked  at  him.  Then  she  drew  up  her  head 
proudly.  Her  hands  ceased  to  shake.  She  had  become 
marble  again. 

Dick  was  not  deceived.  He  dropped  her  hands,  and 
leaned  despondently  against  a  tree. 


“  Angus - ”  he  began. 


236 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  You  must  not,”  Mary  cried ;  and  he  stopped 
abruptly. 

“  It  is  worse  than  I  could  have  feared,”  Dick  said. 

“No,  it  is  not,”  said  Mary  quickly.  “It  is  nothing. 
I  don’t  know  what  you  mean.” 

“  It  was  my  fault  bringing  you  together.  I  should 
have  been  more - ” 

“No,  it  was  not.  I  met  him  before.  Whom  are 
you  speaking  about  ?  ” 

“  Think  of  our  father,  Mary.” 

“  Oh,  I  have  !  ” 

“  He  is  not  like  you.  How  could  he  dare - ” 

“Dick,  don’t.” 

Will  bounced  toward  them  with  a  hop,  step,  and 
jump,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was  signaling  that  she 
wanted  both. 

“  Never  speak  of  this  again,”  Mary  said  in  a  low 
voice  to  Dick  as  they  walked  toward  the  others. 

“I  hope  I  shall  never  feel  forced  to  do  so,”  Dick 
replied. 

“You  will  not,”  Mary  said  in  her  haste.  “But, 
Dick,”  she  added,  anxiously,  “surely  the  others  did 
not  think  what  you  thought  ?  It  would  he  so  unpleas¬ 
ant  for  Sir  Clement.” 

“  Well,  I  can’t  say,”  Dick  answered. 

“  At  ail  events,  he  did  not  ?” 

“Who  is  he?” 

“  Oh,  Dick,  I  mean  Mr.  Angus !  ” 

Dick  bit  his  lip,  and  would  have  replied  angrily ; 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  237 

but  perhaps  lie  loved  this  sister  of  his  more  than  any 
other  person  in  the  world. 

“  Angus,  I  suppose,  noticed  nothing,”  he  answered, 
in  order  to  save  Mary  pain,  “  except  that  you  and 
Dowton  seemed  very  good  friends.” 

Dick  knew  that  this  was  untrue.  He  did  not  re¬ 
member  then  that  the  good-natured  lies  live  forever, 
like  the  others. 

Evening  came  on  before  they  returned  to  the  river, 
and  Sunbury,  now  blazing  with  fireworks,  was  shoot¬ 
ing  flaming  arrcftvs  at  the  sky.  The  sweep  of  water 
at  the  village  was  one  broad  bridge  of  boats,  lighted 
by  torches  and  Chinese  lanterns  of  every  hue.  Stars 
broke  overhead,  and  fell  in  showers.  It  was  only 
possible  to  creep  ahead  by  pulling  in  the  oars  and 
holding  on  to  the  stream  of  craft  of  all  kinds  that 
moved  along  by  inches.  Rob,  who  was  punting  Dick 
and  Mary,  had  to  lay  down  his  pole  and  adopt  the 
same  tactics,  but  boat  and  punt  were  driven  apart, 
and  stood  tangled  hopelessly  in  different  knots. 

“  It  is  nearly  eight  o’clock,”  Dick  said,  after  he 
had  given  up  looking  for  the  rest  of  the  party. 
“  You  must  not  lose  your  train,  Angus.” 

“  I  thought  you  were  to  stay  overnight,  Mr.  An¬ 
gus,”  Mary  said. 

Possibly  she  meant  that  had  she  known  he  had  to 
return  to  London  she  would  have  begun  to  treat  him 
better  earlier  in  the  day,  but  Rob  thought  she  only 
wanted  to  be  polite  for  the  last  time. 


238 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“I  have  to  be  at  the  Wire”  he  replied,  “before 
ten.” 

Mary,  who  had  not  much  patience  with  business, 
and  fancied  that  it  could  always  be  deferred  until 
next  day  if  one  wanted  to  defer  it  very  much,  said : 
“  Oh !  ”  and  then  asked,  “  Is  there  not  a  train  that 
would  suit  from  Sunbury  ?  ” 

Rob,  blinder  now  than  ever,  thought  that  she 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  him. 

“  If  I  could  catch  the  8:15  here,”  he  said,  “  I  would 
reach  Waterloo  before  half -past  nine.” 

“  What  do  you  think  ?  ”  asked  Dick.  “  There  is  no 
time  to  lose.” 

Rob  waited  for  Mary  to  speak,  but  she  said  noth¬ 
ing. 

“  I  had  better  try  it,”  he  said. 

With  difficulty  the  punt  was  brought  near  a  land¬ 
ing-stage,  and  Rob  jumped  out. 

“  Good-bye,”  he  said  to  Mary. 

“  Good-night,”  she  replied.  Her  mouth  was  quiver¬ 
ing,  but  how  could  he  know  ? 

“Wait  a  moment,”  Dick  exclaimed.  “We  might 
see  him  off,  Mary  ?  ”  Mary  hesitated. 

“The  others  might  wonder  what  had  become  of 
us,”  she  said. 

“  Oh,  we  need  not  attempt  to  look  for  them  in  this 
maze,”  her  brother  answered.  “We  shall  only  meet 
them  again  at  the  Tawny  Old.” 

The  punt  was  left  in  charge  of  a  boatman,  and  the 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


239 


three  set  off  silently  for  the  station,  Mary  walking  be¬ 
tween  the  two  men.  They  might  have  been  soldiers 
guarding  a  deserter. 

What  were  Mary’s  feelings?  She  did  not  fully 
realize  as  yet  that  Rob  thought  she  was  engaged  to 
Dowton.  She  fancied  that  he  was  sulky,  because  a 
circumstance  of  which  he  knew  nothing  made  her 
wish  to  treat  Sir  Clement  with  more  than  usual  con¬ 
sideration;  and  now  she  thought  that  Rob,  having 
brought  it  on  himself,  deserved  to  remain  miserable 
until  he  saw  that  it  was  entirely  his  own  fault.  But 
she  only  wanted  to  be  cruel  to  him  now  to  forgive 
him  for  it  afterward. 

Rob  had  ceased  to  ask  himself  if  it  was  possible 
that  she  had  not  promised  to  be  Dowton’s  wife.  His 
anger  had  passed  away.  Her  tender  heart,  he 
thought,  made  her  wish  to  be  good  to  him — for  the 
last  time. 

As  for  Dick,  he  read  the  thoughts  of'  both,  and 
inwardly  called  himself  a  villain  for  not  reading  them 
out  aloud.  Yet  by  his  merely  remaining  silent  these 
two  lovers  would  probably  never  meet  again,  and  was 
not  that  what  would  be  best  for  Mary  ? 

Rob  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  window  to  say  good¬ 
bye,  and  Dick,  ill  at  ease,  turned  his  back  on  the 
train.  It  had  been  a  hard  day  for  Mary,  and,  as 
Rob  pressed  her  hand  warmly,  a  film  came  over  her 
eyes.  Rob  saw  it,  and  still  he  thought  that  she  was 
only  sorry  for  him.  There  are  far  better  and  nobler 


240 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


« 


things  than  loving  a  woman  and  getting  her,  but 
Rob  wanted  Mary  to  know,  by  the  last  look  he  gave 
her,  that  so  long  as  it  meant  her  happiness  his  misery 
was  only  an  unusual  form  of  joy. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND. 

One  misty  morning,  about  three  weeks  after  the 
picnic,  Dick  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  the  quad¬ 
rangle  of  Frobisher’s  inn.  He  had  risen  to  catch  an 
early  train,  but  the  gates  were  locked,  and  the  porter 
in  charge  had  vanished  from  his  box.  Dick  chafed, 
and  tore  round  the  inn  in  search  of  him.  It  was  barely 
six  o’clock — which  is  three  hours  after  midnight  in 
London.  The  windows  of  the  inn  had  darkened  one 
by  one,  until  for  hours  the  black  buildings  had  slept 
heavily  with  only  one  eye  open.  Dick  recognized  the 
window,  and  saw  Rob’s  shadow  cast  on  its  white  blind. 
He  was  standing  there,  looking  up  a  little  uneasily, 
when  the  porter  tramped  into  sight. 

“  Is  Mr.  Angus  often  as  late  as  this  ?  ”  Mary’s 
brother  paused  to  ask  at  the  gate. 

“  Why,  sir,”  the  porter  answered,  “  I  am  on  duty 
until  eight  o’clock,  and  as  likely  as  not  he  will  still  be 
sitting  there  when  I  go.  His  shadow  up  there  has 
become  a  sort  of  companion  to  me  in  the  long  nights, 
but  I  sometimes  wonder  what  has  come  over  the  gentle¬ 
man  of  late.” 


16 


242 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


“  He  is  busy,  I  suppose ;  that  is  all,”  Dick  said, 
sharply. 

The  porter  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  like  one  who 
knew  the  ways  of  literary  hands.  He  probably  wrote, 
himself. 

“  Mr.  Angus  only  came  in  from  his  office  at  three 
o’clock,”  he  said,  “  and  you  would  think  he  would  have 
had  enough  of  writing  by  that  time.  You  can  see  his 
arm  going  on  the  blind  though  yet,  and  it  won’t  be  out 
of  his  common  if  he  has  another  long  walk  before  he 
goes  to  bed.” 

“  Does  he  walk  so  late  as  this  ?  ”  asked  Dick,  to 
whom  six  in  the  morning  was  an  hour  of  the 
night. 

“  I  never  knew  such  a  gentleman  for  walking,” 
replied  the  porter,  “  and  when  I  open  the  gate  to  him 
he  is  off  at  six  miles  an  hour.  I  can  hear  the  echo  of 
his  feet  two  or  three  streets  off.  He  doesn’t  look  as  if 
he  did  it  for  pleasure  either.” 

“  What  else  would  he  do  it  for  ?” 

“  I  can’t  say.  He  looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  run  away 
from  himself.” 

Dick  passed  out  with  a  forced  laugh.  He  knew  that 
since  saying  good-bye  to  Mary  at  Sunbury  Station 
Rob  had  hardly  dared  to  stop  working  and  face  the 
future.  The  only  rest  Rob  got  was  when  he  was 
striding  along  the  great  thoroughfares,  where  every 
one’s  life  seemed  to  have  a  purpose  except  his  own. 
But  it  was  only  when  he  asked  himself  for  what  end 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 4 


243 

he  worked  that  he  stopped  working.  There  were 
moments  when  he  could  not  believe  that  it  was  all 
over.  He  saw  himself  dead,  and  the  world  going  on 
as  usual.  When  he  read  what  he  had  written  the 
night  before,  he  wondered  how  people  could  be  inter¬ 
ested  in  such  matters.  The  editor  of  the  Wire  began 
to  think  of  this  stolid  Scotsman  every  time  there 
was  a  hitch  in  the  office,  but  Rob  scarcely  noticed 
that  he  was  making  progress.  It  could  only  mean 
ten  or  twenty  pounds  more  a  month ;  and  what  was 
that  to  a  man  who  had  only  himself  to  think  of,  and 
had  gathered  a  library  on  twenty  shillings  a  week? 
He  bought  some  good  cigars,  however. 

Dick,  who  was  longing  for  his  father’s  return  from 
the  Continent  so  that  the  responsibility  for  this  mis¬ 
erable  business  might  be  transferred  to  the  colonel’s 
shoulders,  frequently  went  into  Rob’s  rooms  to  com¬ 
fort  him,  but  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  They  sat 
silently  on  opposite  sides  of  the  very  hearth-rug  which 
Mary  had  once  made  a  remark  about — Rob  had  looked 
interestedly  at  the  rug  after  she  went  away — and  each 
thought  that,  but  for  the  other’s  sake,  he  would  rather 
be  alone. 

What  Dick  felt  most  keenly  was  Rob’s  increased 
regard  for  him.  Rob  never  spoke  of  the  Tawny  Owl 
without  an  effort,  but  he  showed  that  he  appreciated 
Dick’s  unspoken  sympathy.  If  affairs  could  have 
righted  themselves  in  that  way,  Mary’s  brother  would 
have  preferred  to  be  turned  with  contumely  out  of 


244 


WEEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Rob’s  rooms,  where,  as  it  was,  and  despite  his  friendship 
for  Rob,  he  seemed  now  to  be  only  present  on  false 
pretences.  Dick  was  formally  engaged  to  Nell  now, 
but  he  tried  at  times  to  have  no  patience  with  Rob. 
Perhaps  he  thought  a  little  sadly  in  his  own  rooms 
that  to  be  engaged  is  not  all  the  world. 

Dick  had  hoped  that  the  misunderstanding  whish 
parted  Rob  and  Mary  at  Sunbury  would  keep  them 
apart  without  further  intervention  from  him.  That 
was  not  to  be.  The  next  time  he  went  to  Molesey  he 
was  asked  why  he  had  not  brought  Mr.  Angus  with 
him,  and  though  it  was  not  Mary  who  asked  the  ques¬ 
tion,  she  stopped  short  on  her  way  out  of  the  saloon 
to  hear  his  answer. 

“  He  did  not  seem  to  want  to  come,”  Dick  replied, 
reluctantly. 

“  I  know  why  Mr.  Angus  would  not  come  with  you,” 
Nell  said  to  Dick  when  they  were  alone ;  “  he  thinks 
Mary  is  engaged  to  Sir  Clement.” 

“  Nonsense,”  said  Dick. 

“Iam  sure  of  it,”  said  Nell;  “you  know  we  all 
thought  so  that  day  we  were  up  the  river.” 

“  Then  let  him  think  so  if  he  chooses,”  Dick  said, 
harshly.  “It  is  no  affair  of  his.” 

“Oh,  it  is!”  Nell  exclaimed.  “But  I  suppose  it 
would  never  do,  Dick  ?  ” 

“What  you  are  thinking  of  is  quite  out  of  the 
question,”  replied  Dick,  feeling  that  it  was  a  cruel 
fate  which  compelled  him  to  act  a  father’s  part  to 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


245 


Mary ;  “  and  besides,  Mary  does  not  care  for  him  like 
that.  She  told  me  so  herself.” 

“  Oh,  but  she  does,”  Nell  replied  in  a  tone  of  convic¬ 
tion. 

“  Did  she  tell  you  so  ?  ” 

“  No,  she  said  she  didn’t,”  answered  Nell,  as  if  that 
made  no  difference. 

“Well,”  said  Dick  wearily,  “it  is  much  better  that 
Angus  should  not  come  here  again.” 

Nevertheless,  when  Dick  returned  to  London  he  car¬ 
ried  in  his  pocket  an  invitation  to  Kob  to  spend  the 
following  Saturday  at  the  Tawny  Owl.  It  was  a  very 
nice  note  in  Mary  Abinger’s  handwriting,  and  Dick 
would  have  liked  to  drop  it  over  the  Hungerfield 
Bridge.  He  gave  it  to  Rob,  however,  and  stood  on  the 
defensive. 

The  note  began :  “  Dear  Mr.  Angus,  Mrs.  Meredith 
would  be  very  pleased  if  you  could - ” 

The  blood  came  to  Rob’s  face  as  he  saw  the  hand¬ 
writing,  but  it  went  as  quickly. 

“They  ask  me  down  next  Saturday,”  Rob  said, 
bluntly,  to  Dick,  “  but  you  know  why  I  can’t  go.” 

“You  had  better  come,”  miserable  Dick  said,  defy¬ 
ing  himself. 

“  She  is  to  marry  Dowton,  is  she  not  ?  ”  Rob  asked, 
but  with  no  life  in  his  voice. 

Dick  turned  away  his  head,  to  leave  the  rest  to  fate. 

“So  of  course  I  must  not  go,”  Rob  continued, 
bravely. 


246 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Dick  did  not  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face,  but  Rob 
put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mary’s  brother. 

“I  was  a  madman,”  he  said,  “to  think  that  she 
could  ever  have  cared  for  me ;  but  this  will  not  inter¬ 
fere  with  our  friendship,  Abinger  ?  ” 

“  Surely  not,”  said  Dick,  taking  Rob’s  hand. 

It  was  one  of  those  awful  moments  in  men’s  lives 
when  they  allow,  face  to  face,  that  they  like  each 
other. 

Rob  concluded  that  Mrs.  Meredith,  knowing  noth¬ 
ing  of  his  attachment  for  Mary,  saw  no  reason  why 
he  should  not  return  to  the  houseboat,  and  that  cir¬ 
cumstances  had  compelled  Mary  to  write  the  invi¬ 
tation.  His  blundering  honesty  would  not  let  him 
concoct  a  polite  excuse  for  declining  it,  and  Mrs. 
Meredith  took  his  answer  amiss,  while  Nell  dared 
not  say  what  she  thought  for  fear  of  Dick.  Mary 
read  his  note  over  once,  and  then  went  for  a  solitary 
walk  round  the  island.  Rob  saw  her  from  the  tow- 
path,  where  he  had  been  prowling  about  for  hours  in 
hopes  of  catching  a  last  glimpse  of  her.  Her  face 
was  shaded  beneath  her  big  straw  hat,  and  no  baby- 
yacht,  such  as  the  Thames  sports,  ever  glided  down 
the  river  more  prettily  than  she  tripped  along  the 
island  path.  Once  her  white  frock  caught  in  a  dilap¬ 
idated  seat,  and  she  had  to  stoop  to  loosen  it.  Rob’s 
heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment  just  then.  The 
way  Mary  extricated  herself  was  another  revelation. 
He  remembered  having  thought  it  delightful  that 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


24? 


she  seldom  knew  what  day  of  the  month  it  was,  and 
having  looked  on  in  an  ecstasy  while  she  searched  for 
the  pocket  of  her  dress.  The  day  before  Mrs.  Mer¬ 
edith  had  not  been  able  to  find  her  pocket,  and  Rob 
had  thought  it  foolish  of  ladies  not  to  wear  their  pock¬ 
ets  where  they  could  be  more  easily  got  at. 

Rob  did  not  know  it,  but  Mary  saw  him.  She  had 
but  to  beckon,  and  in  three  minutes  he  would  have 
been  across  the  ferry.  She  gave  no  sign,  however, 
but  sat  dreamily  on  the  ramshackle  seat  that  patient 
anglers  have  used  until  the  Thames  fishes  must  think 
seat  and  angler  part  of  the  same  vegetable.  Though 
Mary  would  not  for  worlds  have  let  him  know  that 
she  saw  him,  she  did  not  mind  his  standing  afar  off 
and  looking  at  her.  Once  after  that  Rob  started  in¬ 
voluntarily  for  Molesey,  but,  realizing  what  he  was 
about  by  the  time  he  reached  Surbiton,  he  got  out  of 
the  train  there  and  returned  to  London. 

An  uneasy  feeling  possessed  Dick  that  Mary  knew 
of  the  misunderstanding  which  kept  Rob  away,  and 
possibly  even  of  her  brother’s  share  in  fostering  it. 
If  so,  she  was  too  proud  to  end  it.  He  found  that  if 
he  mentioned  Rob  to  her  she  did  not  answer  a  word. 
Hell’s  verbal  experiments  in  the  same  direction  met 
with  a  similar  fate,  and  every  one  was  glad  when  the 
colonel  reappeared  to  take  command. 

Colonel  Abinger  was  only  in  London  for  a  few  days, 
being  on  his  way  to  Glen  Quharity,  the  tenant  of  which 
was  already  telegraphing  him  glorious  figures  about  the 


248 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


grouse.  Mary  was  going  too,  and  tlie  Merediths  were 
shortly  to  return  to  Silchester. 

“  There  is  a  Thrums  man  on  this  stair,”  Dick  said 
to  his  father  one  afternoon  in  Frobisher’s  Inn — “  a  par¬ 
ticular  friend  of  mine,  though  I  have  treated  him 
villainously.” 

“Ah,”  said  the  colonel,  who  had  just  come  up  from 
the  houseboat,  ■“  then  you  might  have  him  in,  and  make 
your  difference  up.  Perhaps  he  could  give  me  some 
information  about  the  shooting.” 

“  Possibly,”  Dick  said  ;  “  but  we  have  no  difference 
to  make  up,  because  he  thinks  me  as  honest  as  himself. 
You  have  met  him,  I  believe.” 

“  What  did  you  say  his  name  was  ?  ” 

“  Ilis  name  is  Angus.” 

“I  can’t  recall  any  Angus.” 

“  Ah,  you  never  knew  him  so  well  as  Mary  and  I 
do.” 

“  Mary  ?  ”  asked  the  colonel,  looking  up  quickly. 

“  Yes,”  said  Dick.  “  Do  you  remember  a  man  from 
a  Silchester  paper,  who  was  at  the  Castle  last  Christ¬ 
mas  ?  ” 

“  What  ?  ”  cried  the  colonel,  “  an  underbred,  poach¬ 
ing  fellow  who - ” 

“  Not  at  all,”  said  Dick  ;  “  an  excellent  gentleman, 
who  is  to  make  his  mark  here,  and,  as  I  have  said,  my 
very  particular  friend.” 

“  That  fellow  turned  up  again,”  groaned  the  col¬ 
onel. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


249 


“  I  have  something  more  to  tell  you  of  him,”  con¬ 
tinued  Dick  remorselessly.  “  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
as  we  say  on  the  Press  when  hard  up  for  copy,  that 
he  is  in  love  with  Mary.” 

The  colonel  sprang  from  his  seat.  “  Be  calm,”  said 

Dick. 

“  I  am  calm,”  cried  the  colonel,  not  saying  another 
word,  so  fearful  was  he  of  what  Dick  might  tell  him 
next. 

“That  would  not  perhaps  so  much  matter,”  Dick 
said,  coming  to  rest  at  the  back  of  a  chair,  “  if  it  were 
not  that  Mary  seems  to  have  an  equal  regard  for 
him.” 

Colonel  Abinger’s  hands  clutched  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  it  was  not  a  look  of  love  he  cast  at  Dick. 

“  If  this  he  true,”  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  breaking 
in  agitation,  “1  shall  never  forgive  you,  Richard — 
never !  But  I  don’t  believe  it.” 

Dick  felt  sorry  for  his  father. 

“  It  is  a  fact  that  has  to  he  faced,”  he  said,  more 
gently. 

“  Why,  why,  why,  the  man  is  a  pauper  !  ” 

“Not  a  hit  of  it,”  said  Dick.  “He  maybe  on  the 
regular  staff  of  the  Wire  any  day  now.” 

“  You  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  you 

have  encouraged  this,  this - ”  cried  the  colonel, 

choking  in  a  rush  of  words. 

“  Quite  the  contrary,”  Dick  said ;  “  I  have  done  more 
than  I  had  any  right  to  do  to  put  an  end  to  it,” 


250 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  Then  it  is  ended  ?  ” 

“  1  can’t  say.” 

“  It  shall  be  ended !  ”  shouted  the  colonel,  making 
the  table  groan  under  his  fist. 

“  In  a  manner,”  Dick  said,  “  you  are  responsible  for 
the  whole  affair.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were  at 
Glen  Quharity  two  or  three  years  ago,  asking  a  parson 
called  Rorrison,  father  of  Rorrison,  the  war  correspond¬ 
ent,  to  use  his  son’s  Press  influence  on  behalf  of  a 
Thrums  man?  Well,  Angus  is  that  man.  Is  it  not 
strange  how  this  has  come  about?  ” 

“  It  is  enough  to  make  me  hate  myself,”  replied  the 
irate  colonel,  though  it  had  not  quite  such  an  effect  as 
that. 

When  his  father  had  subsided  a  little,  Dick  told 
him  of  what  had  been  happening  in  England  during 
the  last  month  or  two.  There  had  been  a  change  of 
government,  but  the  chief  event  was  the  audacity  of  a 
plebeian  in  casting  his  eyes  on  a  patrician’s  daughter. 
What  are  politics  when  the  pipes  in  the  bath-room 
burst  ? 

“  So  you  see,”  Dick  said  in  conclusion,  “  I  have  acted 
the  part  of  the  unrelenting  parent  fairly  well,  and  I  don’t 
like  it.” 

“  Had  I  been  in  your  place,”  replied  the  colonel,  “  I 
would  have  acted  it  a  good  deal  better.” 

“  You  would  have  told  Angus  that  you  considered 
him,  upon  the  whole,  the  meanest  thing  that  crawls, 
and  that  if  he  came  within  a  radius  of  five  miles  of 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


251 


your  daughter  you  would  have  the  law  of  him  ?  Yes ; 
but  that  sort  of  trespassing  is  not  actionable  nowadays ; 
and  besides,  I  don’t  know  what  Mary  might  have 
said.” 

“Trespassing!  ”  echoed  the  colonel;  “I  could  have 
had  the  law  of  him  for  trespassing  nearly  a  year  ago.” 

“  You  mean  that  time  you  caught  him  fishing  in  the 
Dome  ?  I  only  heard  of  that  at  second-hand,  but  I 
have  at  least  no  doubt  that  he  fished  to  some  effect.” 

“  He  can  fish,”  admitted  the  colonel ;  “  I  should  like 
to  know  what  flies  he  used.” 

Dick  laughed. 

“  Angus,”  he  said,  “  is  a  man  with  natural  aptitude 
for  things.  He  does  not,  I  suspect,  even  make  love  like 
a  beginner.” 

“  You  are  on  his  side,  Richard.” 

“  It  has  not  seemed  like  it  so  far,  but  I  confess  I 
have  certainly  had  enough  of  shuffling.” 

“  There  will  be  no  more  shuffling,”  said  the  colonel 
fiercely.  “  I  shall  see  this  man  and  tell  him  what  I 
think  of  him.  As  for  Mary - ” 

He  paused. 

“Yes,”  said  Dick,  “  Mary  is  the  difficulty.  At  pres¬ 
ent  I  cannot  even  teA  what  she  is  thinking  of  it 
all.  Mary  is  the  one  L  ^rson  I  could  never  look  in  the 
face  when  I  meditated  an  underhand  action — I  remem¬ 
ber  how  that  sense  of  honor  of  hers  used  to  annoy  me 
when  I  was  a  boy — and  so  I  have  not  studied  her  coun¬ 
tenance  much  of  late.” 


V 


252 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  She  shall  marry  Dowton,”  said  the  colonel  decis¬ 
ively. 

“  It  is  probably  a  pity,  hut  I  don’t  think  she  will,” 
replied  Dick.  “  Of  course  you  can  prevent  her  marry¬ 
ing  Angus  by  simply  refusing  your  consent.” 

“  Yes,  and  I  shall  refuse  it.” 

“  Though  it  should  break  her  heart  she  will  never 
complain,”  said  Dick,  “  but  it  does  seem  a  little  hard  on 
Mary  that  we  should  mar  her  life  rather  than  endure  a 
disappointment  ourselves.” 

“  You  don’t  look  at  it  in  the  proper  light,”  said  the 
colonel,  who,  like  most  persons,  made  the  proper  light 
himself ;  “  in  saving  her  from  this  man  we  do  her  the 
greatest  kindness  in  our  power.” 

“Dm,”  said  Dick,  “of  course.  That  was  how  I  put 
it  to  myself;  but  just  consider  Angus  calmly,  and  see 
what  case  we  have  against  him.” 

“  He  is  not  a  gentleman,”  said  the  colonel. 

“  He  ought  not  to  be,  according  to  the  proper  light, 
hut  he  is.” 

“  Pshaw !  ”  the  colonel  exclaimed  pettishly.  “  He 
may  have  worked  himself  up  into  some  sort  of  position, 
like  other  discontented  men  of  his  class,  hut  he  never 
had  a  father.” 

“He  says  he  had  a  very  good  one.  Weigh  him, 
if  you  like  against  Dowton,  who  is  a  good  fellow  in 
his  way,  hut  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  did  an  honest 
day’s  work  in  his  life.  Dowton’s  whole  existence 
has  been  devoted  to  pleasure-seeking,  while  Angus 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


253 


has  been  climbing  up  ever  since  he  was  born,  and  with 
a  heavy  load  on  his  back,  too,  most  of  the  time.  If 
he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing,  he  will  have  both  a  good 
income  and  a  good  position  shortly.” 

“  Dowton’s  position  is  made,”  said  the  colonel. 

“Exactly,”  said  Dick,  “and  Angus  is  making  his 
for  himself.  Whatever  other  distinction  we  draw  be¬ 
tween  them  is  a  selfish  one,  and  I  question  if  it  does 
us  much  credit.” 

“  I  have  no  doubt,”  said  the  colonel,  “  that  Mary’s 
pride  will  make  her  see  this  matter  as  I  do.” 

“  It  will  at  least  make  her  sacrifice  herself  for  our 
pride,  if  you  insist  on  that.” 

Mary’s  father  loved  her  as  he  had  loved  her  mother, 
though  he  liked  to  have  his  own  way  with  both  of 
them.  Ilis  voice  broke  a  little  as  he  answered  Dick. 

“You  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your  father,  my  boy,” 
he  said.  “  I  think  I  would  endure  a  good  deal  if  Mary 
were  to  be  the  happier  for  it.” 

Dick  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself. 

“  Whatever  I  may  say,”  he  answered,  “  I  have  at 
least  acted  much  as  you  would  have  done  yourself. 
Forgive  me,  father.” 

The  colonel  looked  up  with  a  wan  smile. 

“Let  us  talk  of  your  affairs  rather,  Richard,”  he 
said.  “  I  have  at  least  nothing  to  say  against  Miss 
Meredith.” 

Dick  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  chair,  and  then 
stood  up,  thinking  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door. 


254 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Are  you  there,  Abinger?”  some  one  called  out. 
“  I  have  something  very  extraordinary  to  tell  you.” 

Dick  looked  at  his  father,  and  hesitated.  “It  is 
Angus,”  he  said. 

“  Let  him  in,”  said  the  colonel. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE  BARBER  OF  ROTTEN  ROW. 

Rob  started  when  he  saw  Mary’s  father. 

“We  have  met  before,  Mr.  Angus,”  said  the  colonel 
courteously. 

“Yes,”  answered  Rob  without  a  tremor  ;  “at  Dome 
Castle,  was  it  not  ?  ” 

This  was  the  Angus  who  had  once  been  unable  to 
salute  anybody  without  wondering  what  on  earth  he 
ought  to  say  next.  This  was  the  colonel  whose  hand 
had  gaped  five  minutes  before  for  Rob’s  throat.  The 
frown  on  the  face  of  Mary’s  father  was  only  a  protest 
against  her  lover’s  improved  appearance.  Rob  was  no 
longer  the  hobbledehoy  of  last  Christmas.  He  was 
rather  particular  about  the  cut  of  his  coat.  lie  had 
forgotten  that  he  was  not  a  colonel’s  social  equal.  In 
short,  when  he  entered  the  room  now  he  knew  what 
to  do  with  his  hat.  Their  host  saw  the  two  men 
measuring  each  other.  Dick  never'  smiled,  but  some¬ 
times  his  mouth  twitched,  as  now. 

“You  had  something  special  to  tell  me,  had  you 
not  ?  ”  he  asked  Rob. 


256 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“Well,”  Rob  replied  with  hesitation,  “  I  have  some¬ 
thing  for  you  in  my  rooms.” 

“  Suppose  my  father,”  began  Dick,  meaning  to  in¬ 
vite  the  colonel  upstairs,  but  pausing  as  he  saw  Rob’s 
brows  contract.  The  .colonel  saw  too,  and  resented 
it.  JSTo  man  likes  to  be  left  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
secret. 

“  Run  up  yourself,  Abinger,”  Rob  said,  seating  him¬ 
self  near  Mary’s  father  ;  “  and,  stop,  here  are  my  keys. 
I  locked  it  in.” 

“  Why,”  asked  Dick,  while  his  father  also  looked  up, 
“have  you  some  savage  animal  up  there?” 

“  No,”  Rob  said,  “  it  is  very  tame.” 

Dick  climbed  the  stair,  after  casting  a  quizzical  look 

#  --  ■ 

behind  him,  which  meant  that  he  wondered  how  long 
the  colonel  and  Rob  would  last  in  a  small  room  to¬ 
gether.  He  unlocked  the  door  of  Rob’s  chambers  more 
quickly  than  he  opened  it,  for  he  had  no  notion  of 
what  might  be  caged  up  inside,  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
entered  he  stopped,  amazed.  All  men  of  course  are 
amazed  once  in  their  lives — when  they  can  get  a  girl 
to  look  at  them.  This  was  Dick’s  second  time. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  when  another  ten 
minutes  can  be  stolen  from  the  day  by  a  readjust¬ 
ment  of  one’s  window-curtains.  Rob’s  blind,  however, 
had  given  way  in  the  cords,  and  instead  of  being 
pulled  up  was  twisted  into  two  triangles.  Just  suffi¬ 
cient  light  straggled  through  the  window  to  let  Dick 
see  the  man  who  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  look- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  257 

ing  sullenly  at  liis  boots.  There  was  a  smell  of  oil  in 
the  room. 

“  Dowton !  ”  Dick  exclaimed ;  “  what  masquerade  is 
this  ?  ” 

The  other  put  up  his  elbow,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow, 
and  then  Dick  opened  the  eyes  of  anger. 

“  Oh,”  he  said,  “  it  is  you,  is  it  ?  ” 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 

“  Just  stand  there,  my  fine  fellow,”  Dick  said,  “  until 
I  light  the  gas.  I  must  have  a  better  look  at  you.” 

The  stranger  turned  longing  eyes  on  the  door  as  the 
light  struck  him. 

“Not  a  single  step  in  that  direction,”  said  Dick, 
“unless  you  want  to  go  over  the  banisters.” 

Abinger  came  closer  to  the  man  who  was  Sir  Clem¬ 
ent  Dowton’s  double,  and  looked  him  over.  He  wore 
a  white  linen  jacket,  and  an  apron  to  match,  and  it 
would  have  been  less  easy  to  mistake  him  for  a  baronet 
aping  the  barber  than  it  had  been  for  the  barber  to  ape 
the  baronet. 

“  Your  name  ?  ”  asked  Dick. 

“Josephs,”  the  other  mumbled. 

“  You  are  a  barber,  I  presume  ?  ” 

“  I  follow  the  profession  of  hair-dressing,”  replied 
Josephs,  with  his  first  show  of  spirit. 

Had  Dick  not  possessed  an  inscrutable  face,  Josephs 
would  have  known  that  his  inquisitor  was  suffering 
from  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Dick  had  just  remem¬ 
bered  that  his  father  was  downstairs. 

17 


258 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE . 


“Well,  Josephs,  I  shall  have  to  hand  you  over  to 
the  police.” 

“I  think  not,”  said  Josephs  in  his  gentlemanly  voice. 

“  Why  not  ?  ”  asked  Dick. 

“  Because  then  it  would  all  come  out.” 

“  What  would  all  come  out  ?  ” 

“  The  way  your  father  was  deceived.  The  society 
papers  would  make  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  he  would 
not  like  that.” 

Dick  groaned,  though  the  other  did  not  hear  him. 

“  You  read  the  society  journals,  Josephs  ?” 

“  Rather !  ”  said  Josephs. 

“  Perhaps  you  write  for  them  ?  ” 

Josephs  did  not  say. 

“Well,  how  were  you  brought  here  ?”  Dick  asked. 

“  Your  friend,”  said  Josephs  sulkily,  “  came  into  our 
place  of  business  in  Southampton  Row  half  an  hour 
ago  and  saw  me.  He  insisted  on  bringing  me  here  at 
once  in  a  cab.  I  wanted  to  put  on  a  black  coat,  but  he 
would  not  hear  of  it.” 

“Ah,  then,  I  suppose  you  gave  Mr.  Angus  the  full 
confession  of  your  roguery  as  you  came  along?” 

“  He  would  not  let  me  speak,”  said  Josephs.  “  He 
said  it  was  no  affair  of  his.” 

“  No  ?  Then  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  favor  me  with 
the  pretty  story.” 

Dick  lit  a  cigar  and  seated  himself.  The  sham 
baronet  looked  undecidedty  at*  a  chair. 

“  Certainly  not,”  said  Dick,  “  you  can  stand.” 

i 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


259 


Josephs  told  liis  tale  demurely,  occasionally  with  a 
gleam  of  humor,  and  sometimes  with  a  sigh.  His 
ambition  to  he  a  gentleman,  but  with  no  desire  to 
know  the  way,  had  come  to  him  one  day  in  his  youth 
when  another  gentleman  flung  a  sixpence  at  him.  In 
a  moment  Josephs  saw  what  it  was  to  belong  to  the 
upper  circles.  He  hurried  to  a  street  corner  to  get  his 
hoots  blacked,  tossed  the  menial  the  sixpence,  telling 
him  to  keep  the  change,  and  returned  home  in  an 
ecstasy,  penniless,  hut  with  an  object  in  life.  That 
object  was  to  do  it  again. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Josephs  slaved  merrily  during 
the  week,  hut  had  never  any  money  by  Monday  morn¬ 
ing.  He  was  a  gentleman  every  Saturday  evening. 
Then  he  lived ;  for  the  remainder  of  the  week  he  was 
a  barber.  One  of  his  delights  at  this  period  was  to 
have  his  hair  cut  at  Truefitt’s,  and  complain  that  it 
was  badly  done.  Having  reproved  his  attendant  in  a 
gentlemanly  way,  he  tipped  him  handsomely  and  re¬ 
tired  in  a  glory.  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  joined 
a  Conservative  association. 

Soon  afterward  Josephs  was  to  he  seen  in  Rotten 
Row,  in  elegant  apparel,  hanging  over  the  railing.  He 
bowed  and  raised  his  hat  to  the  ladies  who  took  his 
fancy,  and,  though  they  did  not  respond,  glowed  with 
the  sensation  of  being  practically  a  man  of  fashion. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  shop. 

The  years  glided  by,  and  Josephs  discovered  that  he 
was  perfectly  content  to  remain  a  hair-dresser  if  he 


260 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


could  be  a  gentleman  now  and  again.  Having  supped 
once  in  a  fashionable  restaurant,  lie  was  satisfied  for  a 
fortnight  or  so  with  a  sausage  and  onions  at  home. 
Then  the  craving  came  back.  He  saved  up  for  two 
months  on  one  occasion,  and  took  Saturday  to  Monday 
at  Cookham,  where  he  passed  as  Henry  K.  Talbot 
Devereux.  He  was  known  to  the  waiters  and  boatmen 
there  as  the  gentleman  who  had  quite  a  pleasure  in 
tossing  them  half-crowns,  and  for  a  month  afterward 
he  had  sausage  without  onions.  So  far  this  holiday 
had  been  the  memory  of  his  life.  He  studied  the  man¬ 
ners  and  language  of  the  gentlemen  who  came  to  the 
shop  in  which  he  was  employed,  and  began  to  dream 
of  a  big  thing  annually.  He  had  learned  long  ago 
that  he  was  remarkably  good-looking. 

For  a  whole  year  Josephs  abstained  from  being  a 
gentleman  except  in  the  smallest  way,  for  he  was 
burning  to  have  a  handle  to  his  name,  and  feared  that 
it  could  not  be  done  at  less  than  twenty  pounds. 

His  week’s  holiday  came,  and  found  Josephs  not 
ready  for  it.  He  had  only  twelve  pounds.  With  a 
self-denial  that  was  magnificent  he  crushed  his 
aspirations,  took  only  two  days  of  delight  at  Brighton, 
and  continued  to  save  up  for  the  title.  Next  summer 
saw  him  at  the  Angler’s  Retreat,  near  Dome  Castle. 
“Sir  Clement  Dowton”  was  the  name  on  his  Glad¬ 
stone  bag.  A  dozen  times  a  day  he  looked  at  it  till 
it  frightened  him,  and  then  he  tore  the  label  off. 
Having  done  so,  he  put  on  a  fresh  one. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


261 


Josephs  had  selected  his  baronetcy  with  due  care. 
Years  previously  he  had  been  told  that  he  looked  like 
the  twin-brother  of  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  and  on  in¬ 
quiry  he  had  learned  that  the  baronet  was  not  in 
England.  As  for  the  Angler’s  Retreat,  he  went  there 
because  he  had  heard  that  it  was  frequented  by  persons 
in  the  rank  of  life  to  which  it  was  his  intention  to 
oelong  for  the  next  week.  He  had  never  heard  of 
Colonel  Abinger  until  they  met.  The  rest  is  known. 
Josephs  dwelt  on  his  residence  at  Dome  Castle  with 
his  eyes  shut,  like  a  street-arab  lingering  lovingly  over 
the  grating  of  a  bakery. 

“  W ell,  you  are  a  very  admirable  rogue,”  Dick  said, 
when  Josephs  had  brought  his  story  to  an  end,  “  and 
though  I  shall  never  be  proud  again,  your  fluency 
excuses  our  blindness.  Where  did  you  pick  it  up  ?  ” 
The  barber  glowed  with  gratification. 

“  It  came  naturally  to  me,”  he  answered.  “  I  was 
intended  for  a  gentleman.  I  dare  say,  now,  I  am  about 
the  only  case  on  record  of  a  man  who  took  to  pickles 
and  French  sauces  the  first  time  he  tried  them.  Mush¬ 
rooms  w^ere  not  an  acquired  taste  with  me,  nor  black 
coffee,  nor  caviare,  nor  liqueurs,  and  I  enjoy  celery  with 
my  cheese.  What  I  liked  best  of  all  was  the  little 
round  glasses  you  dip  your  fingers  into  when  the 
dinner  is  finished.  I  dream  of  them  still.” 

“  You  are  burst  up  for  the  present,  Josephs,  I  pre¬ 
sume  ?  ” 

44  Yes,  but  I  shall  be  able  to  do  something  in  a  small 


262 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


way  next  Christmas.  I  should  like  to  put  it  off  till 
summer,  but  I  can’t.” 

“  There  must  he  no  more  donning  the  name  oi 
Dowton,”  said  Dick,  trying  to  he  stern. 

“  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  give  that  up,”  the  barber 
said  with  a  sigh.  “  I  had  to  bolt,  you  see,  last  time, 
before  I  meant  to  go.” 

“  Ah,  you  have  not  told  me  yet  the  why  and  where¬ 
fore  of  those  sudden  disappearances.  Excuse  my  say¬ 
ing  so,  Josephs,  but  they  were  scarcely  gentlemanly.” 

“  I  know  it,”  said  Josephs  sadly ;  “  but  however  care- 
fully  one  plans  a  thing,  it  may  take  a  wrong  turning. 
The  first  time  I  was  at  the  castle  I  meant  to  leave  in 
a  carriage  and  pair,  waving  my  handkerchief,  but  it 
could  not  be  done  at  the  money.” 

“  The  colonel  would  have  sent  you  to  Silchester  in 
his  own  trap  ” 

“  Ah,  I  wanted  a  brougham.  You  see  I  had  been  a 
little  extravagant  at  the  inn,  and  I  could  not  summon 
up  courage  to  leave  the  castle  without  tipping  the 
servants  all  round.” 

“  So  you  waited  till  you  were  penniless,  and  then 
stole  away  ?  ” 

“Not  qitite  penniless,”  said  Josephs ;  “I  had  three 
pounds  left,  but - ” 

He  hesitated. 

“  You  see,”  he  blurted  out,  blushing  at  last,  “  my 
old  mother  is  dependent  on  me,  and  I  kept  the  three 
pounds  for  her.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


263 


Dick  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

“I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Josephs,”  he  said,  “be¬ 
cause  I  meant  to  box  your  ears  presently,  and  I  don’t 
know  that  1  can  do  it  now.  IIow  about  the  sudden 
termination  to  the  visit  you  honored  the  colonel  with 
last  Christmas  ?  ” 

“I  had  to  go,”  said  Josephs,  “because  I  read  that 
Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  returned  to  England.  Be¬ 
sides,  I  was  due  at  the  shop.” 

“But  you  had  an  elegant  time  while  your  money 
held  out  ?  ” 

Josephs  wiped  a  smile  from  his  face. 

“  It  was  grand,”  he  said.  “  I  shall  never  know  such 
days  again.” 

“  I  hope  not,  Josephs.  Was  there  no  streak  of  cloud 
in  those  halcyon  days  ?  ” 

The  barber  sighed  heavily. 

“Ay,  there  was,”  he  said,  “hair  oil.” 

“  Explain  yourself,  my  gentle  hair-dresser.” 

“  Gentlemen,”  said  Josephs,  “  don’t  use  hair  oil.  I 
can’t  live  without  it.  That  is  my  only  stumbling- 
block  to  being  a  gentleman.” 

He  put  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  again  Dick 
sniffed  the  odor  of  oil. 

“I  had  several  bottles  of  it  with  me,”  Josephs  con¬ 
tinued,  “but  I  dared  not  use  it.” 

“  This  is  interesting,”  said  Dick.  “  I  should  like  to 
know  now,  from  you,  who  have  tried  both  professions, 
whether  you  prefer  the  gentleman  to  the  barber.  ” 


264 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“I  do  and  I  don’t,”  answered  Josephs.  “Hair¬ 
dressing  suits  me  best  as  a  business,  but  gentility 
for  pleasure.  A  fortnight  of  the  gentleman  sets  me 
up  for  the  year.  I  should  not  like  to  be  a  gentleman 
all  the  year  round.” 

u  The  hair  oil  is  an  insurmountable  obstacle  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  the  barber;  “besides,  to  be  a  gentleman 
is  rather  hard  work.” 

“I  dare  say  it  is,”  said  Dick,  “when  you  take  a 
short  cut  to  it.  Well,  I  presume  this  interview  is  at 
an  end.  You  may  go.” 

He  jerked  his  foot  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  but 
Josephs  hesitated. 

“  Colonel  Abinger  well  ?  ”  asked  the  barber. 

“The  door,  Josephs,”  replied  Dick. 

“  And  Miss  Abinger  ?  ” 

Dick  gave  the  barber  a  look  that  hurried  him  out 
of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  Abinger’s  mouth 
twitched  every  time  he  took  the  cigar  out  of  it,  until 
he  started  to  his  feet. 

“I  have  forgotten  that  Angus  and  my  father  are 
together,”  he  murmured.  “  I  wonder,”  he  asked  him¬ 
self,  as  he  returned  to  his  own  chambers,  “  how  the 
colonel  will  take  this  ?  Must  he  be  told?  I  think  so.” 

Colonel  Abinger  was  told,  as  soon  as  Kob  had  left, 
and  it  added  so  much  fuel  to  his  passion  that  it  put 
the  fire  out. 

“  If  the  story  gets  abroad,”  he  said,  with  a  shudder, 
“  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  265 

lt  It  is  a  safe  secret,”  Dick  answered ;  “  the  fellow 
would  not  dare  to  speak  of  it  anywhere.  He  knows 
what  that  would  mean  for  himself.” 

“  Angus  knows  of  it.  Was  it  like  the  chivalrous 
soul  you  make  him  to  flout  this  matter  before  us  ?  ” 

“  You  are  hard  up  for  an  argument  against  Angus, 
father.  I  made  him  promise  to  let  me  know  if  he  ever 
came  on  the  track  of  the  impostor,  and  you  saw  how 
anxious  he  was  to  keep  the  discovery  from  you.  He 
asked  me  at  the  door,  when  he  was  going  out,  not  to 
mention  it  to  either  you  or  Mary.” 

“  Confound  him  !  ”  cried  the  colonel  testily  ;  “  but  he 
is  right  about  Mary ;  we  need  not  speak  of  it  to  her. 
She  never  liked  the  fellow.” 

“  That  was  fortunate,”  said  Dick ;  “  but  you  did, 
father.  You  thought  that  Josephs  was  a  gentleman, 
and  you  say  that  Angus  is  not.  Perhaps  you  have 
made  a  mistake  in  both  cases.” 

“  I  say  nothing  against  Angus,”  replied  the  colonel, 
“  except  that  I  don’t  want  him  to  marry  my  daughter.” 

“  Oh,  you  and  he  got  on  well  together,  then  ?  ” 

“  He  can  talk.  The  man  has  improved.” 

“  You  did  not  talk  about  Mary  ?  ”  asked  Dick.  ' 

“We  never  mentioned  her;  how  could  I,  when  he 
supposes  her  engaged  to  Dowton  ?  I  shall  talk  about 
him  to  her,  though.” 

Two  days  afterward  Dick  asked  his  father  if  he  had 
talked  to  Mary  about  Angus  yet. 

“No,  Richard,”  the  old  man  admitted  feebly,  “I 


266 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


have  not.  The  fact  is,  that  she  is  looking  so  proud 
and  stately  just  now  that  I  feel  nervous  about  broaching 
the  subject.” 

‘‘That  is  exactly  how  I  feel,”  said  Dick;  “but  Nell 
told  me  to-day  that,  despite  her  hauteur  before  us, 
Mary  is  wearing  her  heart  away.” 

The  colonel’s  fingers  beat  restlessly  on  the  mantel¬ 
piece. 

“  I’m  afraid  she  does  care  for  Angus,”  he  said. 

“As  much  as  he  cares  for  her,  I  believe,”  replied 
Dick.  “  Just  think,”  he  added,  bitterly,  “  that  these 
two  people  love  each  other  for  the  best  that  is  in  them, 
one  of  the  rarest  things  in  life,  and  are  nevertheless  to 
be  kept  apart.  Look  here.” 

Dick  drew  aside  his  blind,  and  pointed  to  a  light 
cast  on  the  opposite  wall  from  a  higher  window. 

“  That  is  Angus’  light,”  he  said.  “  On  such  a  night 
as  this,  when  he  is  not  wanted  at  the  Wire,  you  will 
see  that  light  blazing  into  the  morning.  Watch  that 
moving  shadow ;  it  is  the  reflection  of  his  arm  as  he 
sits  there  writing,  writing,  writing,  with  nothing  to 
write  for,  and  only  despair  to  face  him  when  he  stops. 
Is  it  not  too  bad  ?  ” 

“They  will  forget  each  other  in  time,”  said  the 
colonel.  “Let  Dowton  have  another  chance.  He  is 
to  be  at  the  Lodge.” 

“  But  if  they  don’t  forget  each  other ;  if  Dowton 
fails  again,  and  Mary  continues  to  eat  her  heart  iu 
silence,  what  then  ?  ” 


267 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

“  We  shall  see.” 

“  Look  here,  father,  I  cannot  play  this  pitiful  part 
before  Angus  forever.  Let  us  make  a  bargain.  Bow- 
ton  gets  a  second  chance ;  if  he  does  not  succeed,  it  is 
Angus’  turn.  Bo  you  promise  me  so  much  ?  ” 

“  I  cannot  say,”  replied  the  colonel  thoughtfully. 
“  It  may  come  to  that.”  ^ 

Rob  was  as  late  in  retiring  to  rest  that  night  as 
Bick  had  predicted,  but  he  wrote  less  than  usual.  He 
had  something  to  think  of  as  he  paced  his  room,  for, 
unlike  her  father  and  brother,  he  knew  that  when 
Mary  was  a  romantic  school-girl  she  had  dressed  the 
sham  baronet,  as  a  child  may  dress  her  doll,  in  the 
virtues  of  a  hero.  He  shuddered  to  think  of  her  humili¬ 
ation  should  she  ever  hear  the  true  story  of  Josephs — - 
as  she  never  did.  Yet  many  a  lady  of  high  degree  has 
given  her  heart  to  a  baronet  who  was  better  fitted  to 
be  a  barber. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


HOB  PULLS  HIMSELF  TOGETHER. 

Ix  a  London  fog  the  street-lamps  are  up  and  about, 
running  maliciously  at  pedestrians.  He  is  in  love  or 
writing  a  book  who  is  struck  by  one  without  remon¬ 
strating.  One  night  that  autumn  a  fog  crept  through 
London  a  month  before  it  was  due,  and  Rob  met  a 
lamp-post  the  following  afternoon  on  his  way  home 
from  the  Wire  office.  He  passed  on  without  a  word, 
though  he  was  not  writing  a  book.  Something  had 
happened  that  day,  and,  but  for  Mary  Abinger,  Rob 
would  have  been  wishing  that  his  mother  could  see  him 
now. 

The  editor  of  the  Wire  had  called  him  into  a  pri¬ 
vate  room,  in  which  many  a  young  gentleman,  who 
only  wanted  a  chance  to  put  the  world  to  rights,  has 
quaked,  hat  in  hand,  before  now.  It  is  the  dusty 
sanctum  from  which  Mr.  Rowbotham  wearily  distrib¬ 
utes  glory  or  consternation,  sometimes  with  nig¬ 
gardly  hand  and  occasionally  like  an  African  explorer 
scattering  largess  among  the  natives.  Mr.  Row¬ 
botham  might  be  even  a  greater  editor  than  he  is  if 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


269 


he  was  sure  that  it  is  quite  the  proper  thing  for  so 
distinguished  a  man  as  himself  to  believe  in  any¬ 
thing,  and  some  people  think  that  his  politics  are  to 
explain  away  to-day  the  position  he  took  up  yester¬ 
day.  He  seldom  writes  himself,  and,  while  direct¬ 
ing  the  line  to  be  adopted  by  his  staff,  he  smokes  a 
cigar,  which  he  likes  to  probe  with  their  pens.  He  is 
pale  and  thin,  and  has  roving  eyes,  got  from  always 
being  on  the  alert  against  aspirants. 

All  the  chairs  in  the  editorial  room,  except  Mr. 
Rowbotham’s  own,  had  been  converted,  like  the 
mantelpiece,  into  temporary  bookcases.  Rob  tumbled 
the  books  off  one  (your  “Inquiry  into  the  State  of 
Ireland”  was  among  them,  gentle  reader)  much  as  a 
coal-heaver  topples  his  load  into  a  cellar,  or  like  a 
housewife  emptying  her  apron. 

“  You  suit  me  very  well,  Angus,”  the  editor  said. 
“You  have  no  lurking  desire  to  write  a  book,  have 
you  ?  ” 

“No,”  Rob  answered;  “since  I  joined  the  Press 
that  ambition  seems  to  have  gone  from  me.” 

“  Quite  so,”  said  Mr.  Rowbotham,  his  tone  imply¬ 
ing  that  Rob  now  left  the  court  without  a  stain  upon 
his  character.  The  editor’s  cigar  went  out,  and  he 
made  a  spill  of  a  page  from  “  Sonnets  of  the  Woods,” 
which  had  just  come  in  for  review. 

“  As  you  know,”  the  editor  continued,  “  I  have  been 
looking  about  me  for  a  leader-writer  for  the  last  year. 
You  have  a  way  of  keeping  your  head  that  I  like, 


^70  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

and  your  style  is  not  so  villainously  bad.  Are  you 
prepared  to  join  us  ?  ” 

“  I  should  think  so,”  said  Rob. 

“Very  well.  You  will  start  with  £800  a  year. 
Ricketts,  as  you  may  have  heard,  has  half  as  much 
again  as  that,  but  he  has  been  with  us  some  time.” 

“  All  right,”  said  Rob  calmly,  though  his  chest  was 
swelling.  He  used  to  receive  an  order  for  a  sack  of 
shavings  in  the  same  tone. 

“You  expected  this,  I  dare  say?”  asked  the  editor. 

“  Scarcely,”  said  Rob.  “  I  thought  you  would  offer 
the  appointment  to  Marriott ;  he  is  a  much  cleverer 
man  than  I  am.” 

“  Yes,”  assented  Mr.  Rowbotham,  more  readily 
than  Rob  thought  necessary.  “  I  have  had  Marriott 
in  my  eye  for  some  time,  but  I  rather  think  Marriott 
is  a  genius,  and  so  he  would  not  do  for  us.” 

“You  never  had  that  suspicion  of  me?”  asked  Rob 
a  little  blankly. 

“Never,”  said  the  editor  frankly.  “I  saw  from 
the  first  that  you  were  a  man  to  be  trusted.  Moder¬ 
ate  Radicalism  is  our  policy,  and  not  even  Ricketts 
can  advocate  moderation  so  vehemently  as  you  do. 
You  fight  for  it  with  a  flail.  By  the  way,  you  are 
Scotch,  I  think  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Rob. 

“I  only  asked,”  the  editor  explained,  “because  of 
the  shall  and  the  will  difficulty.  Have  you  got  over 
that  yet  ?  ” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


271 


“  No,”  Rob  said,  sadly,  “  and  never  will.” 

“  I  shall  warn  the  proof-readers  to  be  on  the  alert,” 
Mr.  Rowbotham  said,  laughing,  though  Rob  did  not 
see  what  at.  “Dine  with  me  at  the  Garrick  on  Wed¬ 
nesday  week,  will  you  ?  ” 

Rob  nodded,  and  was  retiring,  when  the  editor 
called  after  him : 

“  You  are  not  a  married  man,  Angus  ?  ’ 

“  No,”  said  Rob  with  a  sickly  smile. 

“Ah,  you  should  marry,”  recommended  Mr.  Row¬ 
botham,  who  is  a  bachelor.  “You  would  be  worth 
another  two  hundred  a  year  to  us  then.  I  wish  I 
could  find  the  time  to  do  it  myself.” 

Rob  left  the  office  a  made  man,  but  looking  as  if  it 
all  had  happened  some  time  ago.  There  were  men 
shivering  in  Fleet  Street  as  he  passed  down  it  who 
had  come  to  London  on  the  same  day  as  himself,  every 
one  with  a  tragic  story  to  tell  now,  and  some  already 
seeking  the  double  death  that  is  called  drowning  care. 
Shadows  of  university  graduates  passed  him  in  the 
fog  who  would  have  been  glad  to  carry  his  bag. 
That  night  a  sandwich-board  man,  who  had  once  had 
a  thousand  a  year,  crept  into  the  Thames.  Yet  Rob 
bored  his  way  home,  feeling  that  it  was  all  in  vain. 

He  stopped  at  Abinger’s  door  to  tell  him  what  had 
happened,  but  the  chambers  were  locked.  More  like  a 
man  who  had  lost  £800  a  year  than  one  who  had  just 
been  offered  it,  he  mounted  to  his  own  rooms,  hardly 
noticing  that  the  door  was  now  ajar.  The  blackness 


272 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


of  night  was  in  the  sitting-room,  and  a  smell  of  burn¬ 
ing  leather. 

“  Another  pair  of  slippers  gone,”  said  a  voice  from 
the  fireplace.  It  was  Dick,  and  if  he  had  not  jumped 
out  of  one  of  the  slippers  he  would  have  been  on  fire 
himself.  Long  experience  had  told  him  the  exact  mo¬ 
ment  to  jump. 

“I  tried  your  door,”  Dob  said.  “I  have  news  for 
you.” 

“  Well,”  said  Dick,  “  I  forced  my  way  in  here  be¬ 
cause  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  resolved  not 
to  miss  you.  Who  speaks  first  ?  My  news  is  bad — at 
least  for  me.” 

“  Mine  is  good,”  said  Rob ;  “  we  had  better  finish  up 
with  it.” 

“  Ah,”  Dick  replied,  “  but  when  you  hear  mine  you 
may  not  care  to  tell  me  yours.” 

Dick  spoke  first,  however,  and  ever  afterward  was 
glad  that  he  had  done  so. 

“Look  here,  Angus,”  he  said,  bluntly,  “I  don’t 
know  that  Mary  is  engaged  to  Dowton  ” 

Rob  stood  up  and  sat  down  again. 

“Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  talking  in  that  way,” 
he  said,  shortly.  “  She  was  engaged  to  him  six  weeks 
ago.” 

“No,”  said  Dick,  “she  was  not,  though  for.  all  I 
know  she  may  be  now.” 

Then  Dick  told  his  tale  under  the  fire  of  Rob’s 
§yes»  When  it  was  ended  Bob  rose  from  his  chair, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


273 


and  stared  silently  for  several  minutes  at  a  vase  on 
the  mantelpiece.  Dick  continued  talking,  but  Rob 
did  not  hear  a  word. 

“  I  can’t  sit  here,  Abinger,”  he  said  ;  “  there  is  not 
room  to  think.  I  shall  be  back  presently.” 

He  was  gone  into  the  fog  the  next  moment.  “  At 
it  again,”  muttered  the  porter,  as  Rob  swung  past  and 
was  lost  ten  paces  off.  He  was  back  in  an  hour,  walk¬ 
ing  more  slowly. 

“When  the  colonel  writes  to  you,”  he  said,  as  he 
walked  into  the  room,  “  does  he  make  any  mention  of 
Dowton  ?  ” 

“He  never  writes,”  Dick  answered  ;  “he  only  tele¬ 
graphs  me  now  and  again  when  a  messenger  from  the 
lodge  happens  to  be  in  Thrums.” 

“  Miss  Abinger  writes  ?  ” 

“Yes.  I  know  from  her  that  Dowton  is  still  there, 
but  that  is  all.” 

“  He  would  not  have  remained  so  long,”  said  Rob, 
“  unless — unless - ” 

“  I  don’t  know,”  Dick  answered.  “You  see  it  would 
all  depend  on  Mary.  She  had  a  soft  heart  for  Dowton 
the  day  she  refused  him,  but  I  am  not  sure  how  she 
would  take  his  reappearance  on  the  scene  again.  If 
she  resented  it,  I  don’t  think  the  boldest  baronet  that 
breathes  would  venture  to  propose  to  Mary  in  her 
shell.” 

“  The  colonel  might  press  her  ?  ” 

“  Hardly,  I  think,  to  marry  a  man  she  does  not  care 

18 


274 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


for.  No,  you  do  him  an  injustice.  Wliat  my  father 
would  like  to  have  is  the  power  to  compel  her  to  care 
for  Dowton.  No  doubt  he  would  exercise  that  if  it  was 
his.” 

“  Miss  Abinger  says  nothing — sends  no  messages — I 
mean,  does  she  ever  mention  me  when  she  writes?” 

“  Never  a  word,”  said  Dick.  “  Don’t  look  pale,  man ; 
it  is  a  good  sign.  Women  go  by  contraries,  they  say. 
Besides,  Mary  is  not  like  Mahomet.  If  the  mountain 
won’t  go  to  her,  she  will  never  come  to  the  mountain.” 

Bob  started  and  looked  at  his  hat. 

“  You  can’t  walk  to  Glen  Quharity  Lodge  to-night,” 
said  Dick,  following  Bob’s  eyes. 

“  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  go  at  all  ?  ” 

“  Why — well,  you  see,  it  is  this  awkward  want  of  an 
income  that  spoils  everything.  Now,  if  you  could  per¬ 
suade  Bowbotham  to  give  you  a  thousand  a  year,  that 
might  have  its  influence  on  my  father.” 

“  I  told  you,”  exclaimed  Bob ;  “  no,  of  course  I  did 
not.  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Wire  to-day  at  £800.” 

“Your  hand,  young  man,”  said  Dick,  very  nearly 
becoming  excited.  “Then  that  is  all  right.  On  the 
Press  every  one  with  a  good  income  can  add  two  hun¬ 
dred  a  year  to  it.  It  is  only  those  who  need  the  two 
hundred  that  cannot  get  it.” 

“You  think  I  should  go  north?”  said  Bob,  with  the 
whistle  of  the  train  already  in  his  ears. 

“  Ah,  it  is  not  my  affair,”  answered  Dick ;  “  I  have 
done  my  duty.  I  promised  to  give  Dowton  a  fair 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  275 

chance  and  he  has  had  it.  I  don’t  know  what  use  he 
has  made  of  it,  remember.  You  have  overlooked  my 
share  in  this  business,  and  I  retire  now.” 

“  You  are  against  me  still,  Abinger.” 

“No,  Angus,  on  my  word  I  am  not.  You  are 
as  good  a  man  as  Dowton,  and  if  Mary  thinks  you 
better - ” 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  to  signify  that  he  had 
freed  them  of  a  load  of  prejudice. 

“  But  does  she  ?  ”  said  Rob. 

“You  will  have  to  ask  herself,”  replied  Dick. 

“  Yes,  but  when?” 

“  She  will  probably  be  up  in  town  next  season.” 

“Next  season!”  exclaimed  Rob;  “as  well  say  next 
century.”  . 

“  Well,  if  that  is  too  long  to  wait,  suppose  you  come 
to  Dome  Castle  with  me  at  Christmas  ?  ” 

Rob  pushed  the  invitation  from  him  contemptuously. 

“  There  is  no  reason,”  he  said,  looking  at  Dick  defi¬ 
antly,  “  why  I  should  not  go  north  to-night.” 

“  It  would  be  a  little  hurried,  would  it  not  ?  ”  Dick 
said  to  his  pipe. 

“No,”  Rob  answered,  with  a  happy  inspiration.  “  I 
meant  to  go  to  Thrums  just  now,  for  a  few  days  at  any 
rate.  Rowbotham  does  not  need  me  until  Friday.” 

Rob  looked  up  and  saw  Dick’s  mouth  twitching. 
He  tried  to  stare  Mary’s  brother  out  of  countenance, 
but  could  not  do  it. 

Night  probably  came  on  that  Tuesday  as  usual,  for 


276 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Nature  is  as  much  as  man  a  slave  to  habit ;  but  it  wait 
not  required  to  darken  London.  If  all  the  clocks  and 
watches  had  broken  their  mainsprings  no  one  could 
have  told  whether  it  was  at  noon  or  midnight  that 
Rob  left  for  Scotland.  It  would  have  been  equally 
impossible  to  say  from  his  face  whether  he  was  off  to 
a  marriage  or  a  funeral.  He  did  not  know  himself. 

“This  human  nature  is  a  curious  thing,”  thought 
Dick  as  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  “  Here  are  two  of 
us  in  misery,  the  one  because  he  fears  he  is  not  going 
to  be  married,  and  the  other  because  he  knows  he 
is.” 

He  stretched  himself  out  on  two  chairs. 

“  Neither  of  us,  of  course,  is  really  miserable.  Angus 

is  not,  for  he  is  in  love ;  and  I  am  not,  for - ”  He 

paused  and  looked  at  his  pipe. 

“  No,  I  am  not  miserable ;  how  could  a  man  be  miser- 
erable  who  has  two  chairs  to  lie  upon,  and  a  tobacco 
jar  at  his  elbow  ?  I  fancy,  though,  that  I  am  just  saved 
from  misery  by  lack  of  sentiment. 

“  Curious  to  remember  that  I  was  once  sentimental 
with  the  best  of  them.  This  is  the  Richard  who  sat 
up  all  night  writing  poems  to  Nell’s  eyebrows.  Ah, 
poor  Nell! 

“  I  wonder,  is  it  my  fault  that  my  passion  burned 
itself  out  in  one  little  crackle  ?  With  most  men,  it 
the  books  tell  true,  the  first  fire  only  goes  out  after  the 
second  is  kindled,  but  I  seem  to  have  no  more  sticks 
to  light. 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


277 


“  I  am  going  to  be  married,  though  I  would  much 
rather  remain  single.  My  wife  will  be  the  only  girl  I 
ever  loved,  and  I  like  her  still  more  than  any  other 
girl  I  know.  Though  I  shuddered  just  now  when  I 
thought  of  matrimony,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
we  shall  get  on  very  well  together. 

* 

“  I  should  have  preferred  her  to  prove  as  fickle  as 
myself ;  but  how  true  she  has  remained  to  me  !  Not 
to  me,  for  it  is  not  the  real  Dick  Abinger  she  cares  for, 
and  so  I  don’t  know  that  Nell’s  love  is  of  the  kind  to 
make  a  man  conceited.  Is  marriage  a  rash  experiment 
when  the  woman  loves  the  man  for  qualities  he  does 
not  possess,  and  has  not  discovered  in  years  of  constant 
intercourse  the  little  that  is  really  lovable  in  him? 
Whatever  I  say  to  Nell  is  taken  to  mean  the  exact 
reverse  of  what  I  do  mean ;  she  reads  my  writings 
upside  down,  as  one  might  say ;  she  cries  if  I  speak  to 
her  of  anything  more  serious  than  flowers  and  waltzes, 
but  she  thinks  me  divine  when  I  treat  her  like  an 
infant. 

“  Is  it  weakness  or  strength  that  has  kept  me  what 
the  world  would  call  true  to  Nell  ?  Is  a  man  neces¬ 
sarily  a  villain  because  love  dies  out  of  his  heart,  or 
has  his  reason  some  right  to  think  the  affair  over  and 
show  him  where  he  stands  ?” 

“  Yes,  Nell  after  all  gets  the  worse  of  the  bargain. 
She  will  have  for  a  husband  a  man  who  is  evidently 
incapable  of  a  lasting  affection  for  anybody.  That,  I 
jsuppose,  means  that  I  find  myself  the  only  really 


278 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


interesting  person  I  know.  Yet,  I  think,  Richard,  you 
would  at  times  rather  he  somebody  else — anybody 
almost  would  do. 

“  It  is  a  little  humiliating  to  remember  that  I  have 
been  lying  to  Angus  for  the  last  month  or  two — I, 
who  always  thought  I  had  such  a  noble  admiration 
for  the  truth.  I  did  it  very  easily  too,  so  I  suppose 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  I  really  am  a  very  poor 
sort  of  creature.  I  wonder  if  it  was  for  Mary’s  sake 
I  lied,  or  merely  because  it  would  have  been  too 
troublesome  to  speak  the  truth  ?  Except  by  fits  and 
starts  I  have  ceased  apparently  to  be  interested  in 
anything.  The  only  thing  nowadays  that  rouses  my 
indignation  is  the  attempt  on  any  one’s  part  to  draw 
me  into  an  argument  on  any  subject  under  the  sun. 
Here  is  this  Irish  question;  I  can  pump  up  an 
article  in  three  paragraphs  on  it,  but  I  don’t  really 
seem  to  care  whether  it  is  ever  settled  or  not.  Should 
we  have  a  republic  ?  I  don’t  mind ;  it  is  all  the  same 
to  me ;  but  don’t  give  me  the  casting  vote.  Is  Glad¬ 
stone  a  god  ?  is  Gladstone  the  devil  ?  They  say  he  is 
one  or  other,  and  I  am  content  to  let  them  fight  it  out. 
IIow  long  is  it  since  I  gave  a  thought  to  religion? 
What  am  I  ?  There  are  men  who  come  into  this  room 
and  announce  that  they  are  agnostics,  as  if  that  were 
a.  new  profession.  Am  I  an  agnostic  ?  I  think  not ; 
and  if  I  was  I  would  keep  it  to  myself.  My  soul 
does  not  trouble  me  at  all,  except  for  five  minutes 
or  so  now  and  again,  On  the  whole  I  seem  to  be 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  279 

indifferent  as  to  whether  I  have  one,  or  what  is  to 
become  of  it.” 

Dick  rose  and  paced  the  room,  until  his  face  gave 
the  lie  to  everything  he  had  told  himself.  His  lips 
quivered  and  his  whole  body  shook.  He  stood  in  an 
agony  against  the  mantelpiece  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  emotions  had  possession  of  him  compared 
with  which  the  emotions  of  any  other  person  de¬ 
scribed  in  this  book  were  but  children’s  fancies.  By  and 
by  he  became  calm  and  began  to  undress.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  something.  He  rummaged  for  his 
keys  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat  he  had  cast  off,  and, 
opening  his  desk,  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  that  he  took 
from  it :  “  /Scalping  Knife ,  Man  Frightened  to  Get 
Married  (humorous) !  ” 

“  My  God !  ”  he  groaned,  “  I  would  write  an  article, 
I  think,  on  my  mother’s  coffin.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  AUDACITY  OF  ROB  ANGUS. 

Colonel  Abinger  had  allowed  the  other  sportsmen 
to  wander  away  from  him,  and  now  lay  on  his  back  on 
Ben  Shee,  occasionally  raking  the  glen  of  Quharity 
through  a  field-glass.  It  was  a  purple  world  he  saw 
under  a  sky  of  gray  and  blue ;  with  a  white  thread 
that  was  the  dusty  road  twisting  round  a  heavy  sweep 
of  mountain-side,  and  a  broken  thread  of  silver  that 
was  the  Quharity  straggling  back  and  forward  in  the 
valley  like  a  stream  reluctant  to  be  gone.  To  the 
naked  eye  they  were  bare  black  peaks  that  overlooked 
the  glen  from  every  side  but  the  south.  It  was  not  the 
mountains,  however,  but  the  road  that  interested  the 
colonel.  By  and  by  he  was  sitting  up  frowning,  for 
*  this  is  what  he  saw. 

From  the  clump  of  trees  to  the  north  that  keeps 
Glen  Quharity  Lodge  warm  in  winter  a  man  and  a 
lady  emerged  on  horseback.  They  had  not  advanced 
a  hundred  yards  when  the  male  rider  turned  back,  as 
if  for  something  he  had  forgotten.  The  lady  rode 
forward  alone. 

A  pedestrian  came  into  sight  about  the  same  time, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


281 


a  mile  to  the  south  of  the  colonel.  The  field-glass 
lost  him  a  dozen  times,  but  he  was  approaching  rapidly, 
and  he  and  the  rider  must  soon  meet. 

The  nearest  habitation  to  Colonel  Abinger  was  the 
school-house,  which  was  some  four  hundred  yards  dis¬ 
tant.  It  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  white  road, 
and  is  approached  by  a  straight  path  down  which 
heavy  carts  can  jolt  in  the  summer  months.  Every 
time  the  old  dominie  goes  up  and  down  this  path,  his 
hoots  take  part  of  it  along  with  them.  There  is  a 
stone  in  his  house,  close  to  the  door,  which  is  chipped 
and  scarred  owing  to  his  habit  of  kicking  it  to  get  the 
mud  off  his  boots  before  he  goes  inside.  The  dominie 
was  at  present  sitting  listlessly  on  the  dyke  that  ac¬ 
companies  this  path  to  the  high-road. 

The  colonel  was  taking  no  interest  in  the  pedes¬ 
trian  as  yet,  hut  he  sighed  as  he  watched  the  lady  ride 
slowly  forward.  Where  the  road  had  broken  through 
a  bump  in  the  valley  her  lithe  form  in  green  stood  out 
as  sharply  as  a  silhouette  against  the  high,  ragged 
hank  of  white  earth.  The  colonel  had  recognized  his 
daughter,  and  his  face  was  troubled. 

During  all  the  time  they  had  been  at  the  lodge  he 
had  never  mentioned  Rob  Angus’  name  to  Mary,  chiefly 
because  she  had  not  given  him  a  chance  to  lose  his 
temper.  She  had  been  more  demonstrative  in  her 
love  for  her  father  than  of  old,  and  had  anticipated  his 
wants  in  a  wray  that  gratified  him  at  the  moment 
but  disturbed  him  afterward.  In  his  presence  she 


282 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


seemed  quite  gayly  happy,  but  he  had  noticed  that  she 
liked  to  slip  away  on  to  the  liill-side  by  herself,  and  sit 
there  alone  for  hours  at  a  time.  Sir  Clement  Dowton 
was  still  at  the  lodge,  but  the  colonel  was  despondent. 
He  knew  very  well  that,  without  his  consent,  Mary 
would  never  give  her  hand  to  any  man,  but  he  was 
equally  aware  that  there  his  power  ended.  Where  she 
got  her  notions  he  did  not  know,  but  since  she  became 
his  housekeeper  she  had  impressed  the  colonel  curiously. 
He  was  always  finding  himself  taking  for  granted  her 
purity  to  be  something  so  fine  that  it  behoved  him  to 
be  careful.  Mary  affected  other  people  in  the  same 
way.  They  came  to  know  that  she  was  a  very  rare 
person,  and  so  in  her  company  they  became  almost  fine 
persons  themselves.  Thus  the  natural  goodness  of 
mankind  asserted  itself.  Of  late  the  colonel  had  felt 
Mary’s  presence  more  than  ever  ;  he  believed  in  her  so 
much  (often  to  his  annoyance)  that  she  was  a  religion 
to  him. 

While  Colonel  Abinger  sat  in  the  heather,  perturbed 
in  mind  and  trying  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was 
Mary’s  fault,  the  pedestrian  drew  near  rapidly.  Evi¬ 
dently  he  and  the  rider  would  meet  near  the  school- 
house,  and  before  the  male  rider,  who  had  again 
emerged  from  the  clump  of  trees,  could  make  up 
on  his  companion. 

The  dominie,  who  did  not  have  such  a  slice  of  the 
outer  world  as  this  every  day,  came  to  the  end  of  his 
path  to  have  a  look  at  the  persons  who  •were  nearing 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


283 


him  from  opposite  directions.  He  saw  that  the 
pedestrian  wore  an  elegant  silk  hat  and  black  coat, 
such  as  were  not  to  be  got  in  these  parts.  Only  the 
delve  with  winch  he  walked  suggested  a  man  from 
Thrums. 

The  pedestrian  made  a  remark  about  the  weather 
as  he  hurried  past  the  dominie.  He  was  now  so  near 
the  colonel  that  his  face  could  be  distinctly  seen 
through  the  field-glass.  The  colonel  winced,  and 
turned  white  and  red.  Then  the  field-glass  jumped 
quickly  to  the  horsewoman.  The  pedestrian  started 
as  he  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  her,  and  at  the  same 
moment  her  face  lit  up  with  joy.  The  colonel  saw  it 
and  felt  a  pain  at  his  heart.  The  glass  shook  in  his 
hand,  thus  bringing  the  dominie  accidentally  into 
view. 

The  dominie  was  now  worth  watching.  No  sooner 
had  the  pedestrian  passed  him  than  the  old  man 
crouched  so  as  not  to  seem  noticeable,  and  ran  after 
him.  When  he  was  within  ten  yards  of  his  quarry  he 
came  to  rest,  and  the  field-glass  told  that  he  was 
gaping.  Then  the  dominie  turned  round  and  hurried 
back  to  the  school-house,  muttering  as  he  ran : 

“  It’s  Eob  Angus  come  home  in  a  lum  hat,  and  that’s 
one  o’  the  leddies  frae  the  lodge.  I  maun  awa  to 
Thrums  wi’  this.  Eob  Angus,  Eobbie  Angus,  michty, 
what  a  toon  there’ll  be  aboot  this !  ” 

Eob  walked  up  to  Mary  Abinger,  feeling  that  to  bid 
her  good-afternoon  was  like  saying,  “  Thank  you,”  in 


284 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


a  clmrch  when  the  organ  stops.  He  felt  himself  a 
saw-miller  again. 

The  finest  tiling  in  the  world  is  that  a  woman  can 
pass  through  anything,  and  remain  pure.  Mary  had 
never  been  put  to  the  test,  but  she  could  have  stood  it. 
Her  soul  spoke  in  her  face,  and  as  Hob  looked  at  her 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice  seemed  a  profanation. 
Yet  Mary  was  not  all  soul.  She  understood,  for  in¬ 
stance,  why  Rob  stammered  so  much  as  he  took  her 
hand,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  on  her  green 
habit  instead  of  the  black  one. 

Sir  Clement  Rowton  rode  forward  smartly  to  make 
up  on  Miss  Abinger,  and  saw  her  a  hundred  yards 
before  him  from  the  top  of  a  bump  which  the  road 
climbs.  She  was  leaning  forward  in  her  saddle  talking 
to  a  man  whom  he  recognized  at  once.  The  baronet’s 
first  thought  was  to  ride  on,  but  he  drew  rein. 

“  I  have  had  my  chance  and  failed,”  he  said  to  him¬ 
self  grimly.  “  Why  should  not  he  have  his  ?  ” 

With  a  last  look  at  the  woman  he  loved,  Sir 
Clement  turned  his  horse,  and  so  rode  out  of  Mary 
Abinger’s  life.  She  had  not  even  seen  him. 

“  Papa  has  been  out  shooting,”  she  said  to  Rob,  who 
was  trying  to  begin,  “  and  I  am  on  my  way  to  meet 
him.  Sir  Clement  Dowton  is  with  me.” 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  for  the  baronet,  and 
Rob,  who  had  been  aimlessly  putting  his  fingers 
through  her  horse’s  mane,  started  at  the  mention  of 
Sir  Clement’s  name. 


When  a  man's  single. 


285 


“  Miss  Abinger,”  lie  said,  “  I  have  come  here  to  ask 
you  one  question.  I  have  no  right  to  put  it,  but  Sir 
Clement,  he - ” 

“  If  you  want  to  see  him,”  said  Mary,  “  you  have 
just  come  in  time.  I  believe  he  is  starting  for  a  tour 
of  the  world  in  a  week  or  so.” 

Rob  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  from  that  moment 
he  liked  Howton.  But  he  had  himself  to  think  of  at 
present.  He  remembered  that  he  had  another  ques¬ 
tion  to  ask  Miss  Abinger. 

“  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  saw  you,”  he  said. 

“Yes,”  said  Mary,  sitting  straight  in  her  saddle, 
“you  never  came  to  the  houseboat  those  last  weeks. 
I  suppose  you  were  too  busy.” 

“That  was  not  what  kept  me  away,”  Rob  said. 
“  You  know  it  was  not.” 

Mary  looked  behind  her  again. 

“  There  was  nothing  else,”  she  said ;  “  I  cannot  un¬ 
derstand  what  is  detaining  Sir  Clement.” 

“  I  thought - ”  Rob  began. 

“  You  should  not,”  said  Mary  looking  at  the  school- 
house. 

“  But  your  brother - ”  Rob  was  saying,  when  he 

paused,  not  wanting  to  incriminate  Hick. 

“  Yes,  I  know,”  said  Mary,  whose  intellect  was  very 
clear  to-day.  She  knew  why  Rob  stopped  short,  and 
there  was  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  were  turned 
upon  him. 

“  Your  brother  advised  me  to  come  north,”  Rob 


286 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


said,  but  Mary  did  not  answer.  “  I  would  not  have 
done  so,”  he  continued,  “if  I  had  known  that  you 
knew  I  stayed  away  from  the  houseboat.” 

“  I  think  I  must  ride  on,”  Mary  said. 

“  No,”  said  Rob,  in  a  voice  that  put  it  out  of  the 
question.  So  Mary  must  have  thought,  for  she  re¬ 
mained  there.  “  You  thought  it  better,”  he  went 
on  huskily,  “  that,  whatever  the  cause,  I  should  not  see 
you  again.” 

Mary  was  bending  her  riding- whip  into  a  bow. 

“  Did  you  not  ?  ”  cried  Rob  a  little  fiercely. 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

“  Then  why  did  you  do  it  ?  ”  he  said. 

“  I  didn’t  do  anything,”  said  Mary. 

“  In  all  London,”  said  Rob,  speaking  at  a  venture, 
“  there  has  not  been  one  person  for  the  last  two 
months  so  miserable  as  myself.” 

Mary’s  eyes  wandered  from  Rob’s  face  far  over  the 
heather.  There  might  be  tears  in  her  eyes  at  any 
moment.  The  colonel  was  looking. 

“  That  stream,”  said  Rob  with  a  mighty  effort, 
pointing  to  the  distant  Whunny,  “  twists  round  the 
hill  on  which  we  are  now  standing,  and  runs  through 
Thrums.  It  turns  the  wheel  of  a  saw-mill  there,  and 
in  that  saw-mill  I  was  born  and  worked  with  my 
father  for  the  great  part  of  my  life.” 

“  I  have  seen  it,”  said  Mary,  with  her  head  turned 
away.  “  I  have  been  in  it.” 

“  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  that  my  sis- 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  287 

ter’s  child  was  found  dead.  Had  she  lived  I  might 
never  have  seen  you.” 

“  One  of  the  gamekeepers,”  said  Mary,  “  showed 
me  the  place  where  you  found  her  with  her  foot  in  the 
water.” 

“  I  have  driven  a  cart  through  this  glen  a  hundred 
times,”  continued  Rob  doggedly.  “  You  see  that 
wooden  shed  at  the  school-house;  it  was  my  father 
and  I  who  put  it  up.  It  seems  hut  yesterday  since  I 
carted  the  hoards  from  Thrums.” 

“  The  dear  hoards,”  murmured  Mary. 

“  Many  a  day  my  mother  has  walked  from  the  saw¬ 
mill  into  this  glen  with  my  dinner  in  a  basket.” 

“  Good  mother,”  said  Mary. 

“  Now,”  said  Rob,  “  now  when  I  come  hack  here 
and  see  you,  I  remember  what  I-  am.  I  have  lived  for 
you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you,  hut  however  hard  I 
might  toil  for  you  there  must  always  be  a  difference 
between  us.” 

He  was  standing  on  the  high  hank,  and  their  faces 
were  very  close.  Mary  shuddered. 

“  I  only  frighten  you,”  cried  Rob. 

Mary  raised  her  head,  and,  though  her  face  was  wet, 
she  smiled.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  but  she 
noticed  it  and  drew  it  back.  Rob  saw  it  too,  but  did 
not  seek  to  take  it.  They  were  looking  at  each  other 
bravely.  His  eyes  proposed  to  her,  while  he  could 
not  say  a  word,  and  hers  accepted  him.  On  the  hills 
mm  were  shooting  birds. 


288 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Rob  knew  that  Mary  loved  him.  An  awe  fell 
upon  him.  “  What  am  I  ?  ”  he  cried,  and  Mary  put 
her  hand  in  his.  “  Don’t,  dear,”  she  said,  as  his  face 
sank  on  it ;  and  he  raised  his  head  and  could  not 
speak. 

The  colonel  sighed,  and  his  cheeks  were  red.  His 
head  sank  upon  his  hands.  lie  was  young  again, 
and  walking  down  an  endless  lane  of  green  with  a . 
maiden  by  his  side,  and  her  hand  was  in  his.  They 
sat  down  by  the  side  of  a  running  stream.  Her  fair 
head  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  was  his  wife.  The 
colonel’s  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  saying  to  himself 
words  of  love,  and  his  arms  went  out  to  her  who  had 
been  dead  this  many  a  year,  and  a  tear,  perhaps  the 
last  he  ever  shed,  ran  down  his  cheek. 

“  I  should  not,”  Mary  said  at  last,  “  have  let  you 
talk  to  me  like  this.” 

Rob  looked  up  with  sudden  misgiving. 

“  Why  not  ?  ”  he  cried. 

“  Papa,”  she  said,  “  will  never  consent,  and — I  knew 
that ;  I  have  known  it  all  along.” 

“  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  up  now,”  Rob  said, 
passionately,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  run  away 
with  her  at  that  moment. 

“  I  had  no  right  to  listen  to  you,”  said  Mary.  “  I 
did  not  mean  to  do  so,  but  I — I  ” — her  voice  sank  into 
a  whisper — “  I  wanted  to  know - ” 

“  To  know  that  T  Joyed  yon  !  Ah,  you  have  known 
all  along.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  289 

“  Yes,”  said  Mary,  “  but  I  wanted — I  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  so  yourself.” 

Rob’s  arms  went  oyer  her  like  a  hoop. 

“Rob,  dear,”  she  whispered,  “you  must  go  away, 
and  never  see  me  any  more.” 

“  I  won't,”  cried  Rob  ;  “  you  are  to  be  my  wife.  He 
shall  not  part  us.” 

“  It  can  never  be,”  said  Mary. 

“  I  shall  see  him — I  shall  compel  him  to  consent.” 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

“You  don’t  want  to  marry  me,”  Rob  said,  fiercely, 
drawing  back  from  her.  “You  do  not  care  for  me. 
What  made  you  say  you  did  ?  ” 

“  I  shall  have  to  go  back  now,”  Mary  said,  and  the 
softness  of  her  voice  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
passion  in  his. 

“  I  shall  go  with  you,”  Rob  answered,  “  and  see  your 
father.” 

“  No,  no,”  said  Mary  ;  “  we  must  say  good-bye  here, 
now.” 

Rob  turned  on  her  with  all  the  dourness  of  the 
Anguses  in  him. 

“  Good-bye,”  he  said,  and  left  her.  Mary  put  her 
hand  to  her  heart,  but  he  was  already  turning  back. 

“  Oh,”  she  cried,  “  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  so  much 
harder  to  me  than  to  you  ?  ” 

“Mary,  my  beloved,”  Rob  cried.  She  swayed  in  her 
saddle,  and  if  he  had  not  been  there  to  catch  her  she 

would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

19 


290 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


Rob  heard  a  footstep  at  his  side,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  Colonel  Abinger.  The  old  man’s  face  was  white, 
but  there  was  a  soft  look  in  his  eye,  and  he  stooped  to 
take  Mary  to  his  breast. 

“  No,”  Rob  said,  with  his  teeth  closed,  “  you  can’t 
have  her.  She’s  mine.” 

“Yes,”  the  colonel  said,  sadly;  “she’s  yours.” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  VERDICT  OF  THRUMS. 

Of  a  mild  Saturday  evening  in  the  following  May, 
'  Sander sy  Riach,  telegraph  boy,  emerged  from  the 
Thrums  post-office,  and,  holding  his  head  high,  strutted 
off  toward  the  Tenements.  He  had  on  his  uniform, 
and  several  other  boys  flung  gutters  at  it,  to  show  that 
they  were  as  good  as  he  was. 

“Wha’s  deid,  Sandersy?”  housewives  flung  open 
their  windows  to  ask. 

“  It’s  no  death,”  Sandersy  replied.  “Na,  na,  far 
frae  that.  I  daurna  tell  ye  what  it  is,  because  its 
agin’  the  regalations,  but  it’ll  cause  a  michty  wy  doin’ 
in  Thrums  this  nicht.” 

“Juist  whisper  what  it’s  aboot,  Sandersy,  my 
laddie.” 

“  It  canna  be  done,  Easie ;  na,  na.  But  them  ’at 
wants  to  hear  the  noos,  follow  me  to  Tammas  Hag- 
gart’s.” 

Off  Sandersy  went,  with  some  women  and  a  dozen 
children  at  his  heels,  but  he  did  not  find  Tammas  in. 

“  I  winna  hae’t  lying’  about  here,”  Chirsty,  the  wife 


292 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


of  Tammas,  said,  eyeing  the  telegram  as  something 
that  might  go  off  at  any  moment ;  44  ye’ll  better  tak’ 
it  on  to  ’imseP.  He’s  takkin’  a  dander  through  the 
buryin’-ground  wi’  Snecky  Hobart.” 

Sandersy  marched  through  the  east  town-end  at  the 
head  of  his  following  and  climbed  the  steep,  straight 
brae  that  leads  to  the  cemetery.  There  he  came  upon 
the  stone-breaker  and  the  bellman  strolling  from  grave 
to  grave.  Silva  McQuhatty  and  Sam’l  Todd  were 
also  in  the  burying-ground  for  pleasure,  and  they 
hobbled  toward  Tammas  when  they  saw  the  telegram 
in  his  hand. 

44  4  Thomas  Haggart,’  ”  the  stone-breaker  murmured, 
reading  out  his  own  name  on  the  envelope,  44  4  Tene¬ 
ments,  Thrums.’”  Then  he  stared  thoughtfully  at 
his  neighbors  to  see  whether  that  could  be  looked 
upon  as  news.  It  was  his  first  telegram. 

44  Ay,  ay,  deary  me,”  said  Silva  mournfully. 

44  She’s  no  very  expliceet,  do  ye  think  ?  ”  asked 
Sam’l  Todd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  however,  as  an  official  himself,  had 
a  general  notion  of  how  affair’s  of  state  are  conducted. 

44  Rip  her  open,  Tammas,”  he  suggested.  44  That’s 
but  the  shell,  I’m  thinking.” 

44  Does  she  open  ?  ”  asked  Tammas  with  a  grin. 

He  opened  the  telegram  gingerly,  and  sat  down  on  a 
prostrate  tombstone  to  consider  it.  Snecky’s  fingers 
tingled  to  get  at  it. 

“  It  begins  in  the  same  wy,”  the  stone-breaker 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  293 

said  deliberately :  “  4  Thomas  Haggart,  Tenements, 
Thrums.’  ” 

“  Ay,  ay,  deary  me,”  repeated  Silva. 

44  That  means  it’s  to  you,”  Snecky  said  to  Tammas. 

“  Next,”  continued  Tammas,  44  comes  4  Elizabeth 
Haggart,  101  Lower  Fish  Street,  Whitechapel,  Lon¬ 
don.’  ” 

“  She’s  a’  names  thegether,”  muttered  Sam’l  Todd 
in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

44  She’s  a’  richt,”  said  Snecky,  nodding  to  Tammas 
to  proceed.  44  Elizabeth  Haggart — that’s  wha  the  tele¬ 
gram  comes  frae.” 

44  Ay,  ay,”  said  the  stone-breaker  doubtfully,  44  but  I 
ken  no  Elizabeth  Haggart.” 

44  Hoots,”  said  Snecky ;  44  it’s  your  ain  dochter  Lis- 
beth.” 

44  Keep  us  a’,”  said  Tammas,  44  so  it  is.  I  didna 
un’erstan’  at  first;  ye  see  we  aye  called  her  Leeby. 
Ay,  an’  that’s  whaur  she  bides  in  London  too.” 

44  Lads,  lads,”  said  Silva,  44  an’  is  Leeby  gone  ?  Ay, 
ay,  we  all.  fade  as  a  leaf ;  so  we  do.” 

“What!”  cried  Tammas,  his  hand  beginning  to 
shake. 

44  Havers,”  said  Snecky,  44  ye  hinna  come  to  the  tele¬ 
gram  proper  yet,  Tammas.  What  mair  does  it  say  ?  ” 

The  stone-breaker  conned  over  the  words,  and  by 
and  by  his  face  wrinkled  with  excitement.  He  puffed 
his  cheeks,  and  then  let  the  air  rush  through  bia 
mouth  like  an  escape  of  gas, 


294 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  It’s  Rob  Angus,”  he  blurted  out. 

“  Man,  man,”  said  Silva,  “  an’  him  lookit  sae  strong 
an’  snod  when  he  was  here  i’  the  back  end  o’  last 
year.” 

“  He’s  no  deid,”  cried  Tammas,  u  he’s  mairit.  Lis¬ 
ten,  lads  :  c  The  thing  is  true  Rob  Angus  has  married 
the  colonel’s  daughter  at  a  castle  Rob  Angus  has 
married  the  colonel.’  ” 

“  Losh  me !  ”  said  Sam’l,  “  I  never  believed  he  would 
manage’!.” 

“  Ay,  but  she  reads  queer,”  said  Tammas.  “  First 
she  says  Rob’s  mairit  the  dochter,  an’  neist  ’at  he’s 
mairit  the  colonel.” 

“  Twa  o’  them !  ”  cried  Silva,  who  was  now  in  a 
state  to  believe  anything. 

Snecky  seized  the  telegram  and  thought  it  over. 

“I  see  what  Leeby’s  done,”  he  said,  admiringly. 
“  Ye’re  restricted  to  twenty  words  in  a  telegram;  an’ 
Leeby  found  she  had  said  a’  she  had  to  say  in  four¬ 
teen  words,  so  she’s  repeated  hersel’  to  get  her  full 
shilling’s  worth.” 

“Ye’ve  hit  it,  Snecky,”  said  Tammas.  “It’s  juist 
what  Leeby  would  do.  She  was  aye  a  michty  thrifty, 
shrewd  crittur.” 

“  A  shilling’s  an  awfu’  siller  to  fling  awa,  though,” 
said  Sam’l. 

“It’s  weel  spent  in  this  case,”  retorted  Tammas, 
sticking  up  for  his  own ;  “  there  hasna  ben  sich  a 
Startler  in  Thrums  since  the  English  kirk-steeple  fell.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


295 


“Ye  can  see  Angus’  saw-mill  frae  here,”  ex¬ 
claimed  Silva,  implying  that  this  made  the  affair 
more  wonderful  than  ever. 

“  So  ye  can,”  said  Snecky,  gazing  at  it  as  if  it  were 
some  curiosity  that  had  been  introduced  into  Thrums 
in  the  night  time. 

“  To  think,”  muttered  Tammas,  “  ’at  the  saw-miller 
doon  there  should  be  mairit  in  a  castle.  It’s  beyond 
all.  Oh,  it’s  beyond,  it’s  beyond.” 

“  Sal,  though,”  said  Sam’l  suspiciously,  “  I  wud  like 
a  sicht  o’  the  castle.  I  mind  o’  readin’  in  a  booky 
’at  every  Englishman’s  hoose  is  his  castle,  so  I’m 
thinkin’  castle’s  but  a  name  in  the  sooth  for  an  ord’- 
nar  hoose.” 

“  Weel  a  wat,  ye  never  can  trust  thae  foreigners,” 
said  Silva ;  “it’s  weel  beknown  ’at  English  is  an 
awful  per  tent  ious  langitch  too.  They  slither  ower 
their  words  in  a  hurried  wy  ’at  I  canna  say  I  like; 
no,  I  canna  say  I  like  it.” 

“  Will  Leeby  hae  seen  the  castle  ?  ”  asked  Sam’l. 

“  Na,”  said  Tammas ;  “  it’s  a  lang  wy  frae  Lon¬ 
don  ;  she’ll  juist  hae  heard  o’  the  mairitch. 

“It’ll  hae  made  a  commotion  in  London,  I  dinna 
doot,”  said  Snecky,  “but,  lads,  it  proves  as  the  colonel 
man  stuck  to  Rob.” 

“  Ay,  I  hardly  expected  it.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  Snecky,  ye’re  richt.  Rob’ll  hae  manage’t 
him.  Weel,  I  will  say  this  for  Rob  Angus,  he  was  a 
crittur  ’at  was  terrible  fond  o’  gettin’  his  ain  wy  ” 


296 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


“  The  leddy  had  smoothed  the  thing  ower  wi’  her 
faither,”  said  Tamm  as,  who  was  notorious  for  his 
knowledge  of  women  ;  “  ay,  an’  there  was  a  brither, 
ye  mind?  Ane  o’ the  servants  up  at  the  lodge  said 
to  Kitty  Wobster  ’at  they  were  to  be  mairit  the  same 
day,  so  I’ve  nae  doot  they  were.” 

“  Ay,”  said  Sam’l,  pricking  up  his  ears,  “  an’  wha 
was  the  brither  gettin’  ?  ” 

“Weel,  it  was  juist  gossip,  ye  understan’.  But  I 
heard  tell  ’at  the  leddy  had  a  tremendous  tocher,  an’ 
’at  she  was  called  Meredith.” 

“  Meredith !  ”  exclaimed  Silva  McQuhatty ;  “  what 
queer  names  some  o’  thae  English  fowk  has;  ay,  I 
prefer  the  ord’nar  names  mysel’.” 

“  I  wonder,”  said  Snecky,  looking  curiously  at  the 
others,  “  what  Rob  has  in  the  wy  o’  wages  ?  ” 

“  That’s  been  discuss’t  in  every  lioose  in  Thrums,” 
said  Sam’l ;  “  but  there’s  no  doubt  it’s  high,  for  it’s 
a  salary  ;  ay,  it’s  no  wages.” 

“I  dinna  ken  what  Rob  has,”  Silva  said,  ^but  some 
o’  thae  writers  makes  awfu’  sums.  There’s  the 
yeditor  o’  the  Tilliedrum  Weekly  Herald  noo.  I 
canna  tell  his  income,  but  I  have  it  frae  Rite  Deu- 
chars,  wha  kens,  ’at  he  pays  twa-an ’-twenty  pound  o’ 
rent  for’s  lioose.” 

“  Ay,  but  Rob’s  no  a  yeditor,”  said  Sam’l. 

“Ye’re  far  below  the  mark  wi’  Rob’s  salary,”  said 
Tammas.  “My  ain  opeenion  is  ’at  he  has  a  great 
hoose  in  London  by  this  time,  wi’  twa  or  three  servants, 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE.  291 

an’  a  lad  in  knickerbuckers  to  stall’  ahent  his  chair 
and  reach  ower  him  to  cut  the  roast  beef.” 

“  It  may  be  so,”  said  Snecky,  who  had  heard  of  such 
things,  “  but  if  it  is  it’ll  irritate  Rob  michty  no  to  get 
cuttin’  the  roast  ’imsel.’  Tliae  Angus’  aye  like’t  to 
do  a’thing  for  themsel’s.” 

“There’s  the  poseetion  to  think  o’,”  said  Tammas. 

“  Thrums’ll  be  a  busy  toon  this  nicht,’  said  Sam’l, 
“  when  it  hears  the  noos.  Ay,  I  maun  awa  an’  tell  the 
wife.” 

Having  said  this,  Sam’l  sat  down  on  the  tombstone. 

“It’ll  send  mair  laddies  on  to  the  papers  oot  o’ 
Thrums,”  said  Tammas.  “There’s  three  awa’ to  the 
printin’  trade  since  Rob  was  here,  and  Susie  Byars  is  to 
send  little  Joey  to  the  business  as  sune  as  he’s  auld 
eneuch.” 

“  Joey’ll  do  weel  in  the  noospaper  line,”  said  Silva ; 
“  he  writes  a  better  han’  than  Rob  Angus  already.” 

“  Weel,  weel,  that’s  the  main  thing,  lads.” 

Sam’l  moved  off  slowly  to  take  the  news  into  the 
east  town- end. 

“It’s  to  Rob’s  creedit,”  said  Tammas  to  the  two  men 
remaining,  “  ’at  he  wasna  at  all  prood  when  he  came 
back.  Ay,  he  called  on  me  very  frank  like,  as  ye’ll 
mind,  an’  I  wasna  in,  so  Chirsty  dusts  a  chair  for  ’im, 
and  comes  to  look  for  me.  Lads,  I  was  fair  ashamed 
to  see  ’at  in  her  fluster  she’d  gien  him  a  common  chair, 
when  there  was  hair-bottomed  anes  in  the  other  room. 
Ye  may  be  sure  I  sent  her  for  a  better  chair,  an’  got 


298 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


him  to  change,  though  he  was  sort  o’  mad  like  at  hayin’ 
to  shift.  That  was  his  ind’pendence  again.” 

“I  was  aye  callin’  him  Rob,”  said  Snecky,  “fo*- 
gettin’  what  a  grand  man  he  was  noo,  an’,  of  coorse,  I 
corrected  mysel’,  and  said  Mr.  Angus.  Weel,  when  I’d 
dune  that  mebbe  a  dozen  times  he  was  fair  stampin’s 
feet  wi’  rage,  as  ye  micht  say.  -  Ay,  there  was  a  want 
o’  patience  aboot  Rob  Angus.” 

“  He  slippit  a  gold  sovereign  into  my  hand,”  said 
Silva  “  but,  losh,  he  wudna  lat  me  thank’  im.  ‘  Hold 
yer  tongue,’  he  says,  or  words  to  that  effec’,  when  I 
insistit  on’t.” 

At  the  foot  of  the  burying-ground  road  Sam’l  Todd 
could  be  seen  laying  it  off  about  Rob  to  a  little  crowd 
of  men  and  women.  Snecky  looked  at  them  till  he 
could  look  no  longer. 

“  I  maun  awa  wi’  the  noos  to  the  wast  toon-end,”  he 
said,  and  by  and  by  he  went,  climbing  the  dyke  for  a 
short  cut. 

“  Weel,  weel,  Rob  Angus  is  mairit,”  said  Silva  to 
Tammas. 

“  So  he  is,  Silva,”  said  the  stone-breaker. 

“  It’s  an  experiment,”  said  Silva. 

“Ye  may  say  so,  but  Rob  was  aye  venturesome.” 

“Ye  saw  the  leddy,  Tammas  ?” 

“Ay,  man,  I  did  mail*  than  that.  She  spoke  to 
me,  an’  speired  a  lot  aboot  the  wy  Rob  took  on  when 
little  Davy  was  fund  deid.  He  was  fond  o’  his 
fowk,  Rob,  michty  fond.” 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


299 


“  What  was  your  opeenion  o’  her  then,  Tanunas  ?  ” 

“  Weel,  Silva,  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  oncommon 
favorably  impreesed.  She  shook  hands  wi’  me,  man, 
an’  she  had  sic  a  saft  voice  an’  sic  a  bonny  face  I 
was  a  kind  o’  carried  awa ;  yes,  I  was  so.” 

“Ay,  ye  say  that,  Tammas.  Weel,  I  think  I’ll  be 
movin’.  They’ll  be  keen  to  hear  aboot  this  in  the 
square.” 

“  I  said  to  her,”  continued  Tammas,  peering  through 
his  half-closed  eyes  at  Silva,  “  ’at  Rob  was  a  lucky 
crittur  to  get  sic  a  bonny  wife.” 

“  Ye  did !  ”  cried  Silva.  “  An’  lioo  did  she  tak’ 
that  ?  ” 

“  Ou,”  said  Tammas  complacently,  “  she  took  it 
weel.” 

“  I  wondjsr,”  said  Silva,  now  a  dozen  yards  away, 
“  ’at  Rob  never  sent  ony  o’  the  papers  he  writes  to 
Thrums  juist  to  lat’s  see  them.” 

“  He  sent  a  heap,”  said  Tammas,  “  to  the  minister, 
meanin’  them  to  be  passed  roond,  but  Mr.  Disliart 
didna  juist  think  they  were  quite  the  thing,  ye  un’er- 
stan’,  so  he  keeps  them  lockit  up  in  a  press.” 

“  They  say  in  the  toon,”  said  Silva,  “  ’at  Rob  would 
never  hae  got  on  sae  weel  if  Mr.  Dishart  hadna  helpit 
him.  Do  you  think  there’s  ony  thing  in  that  ?  ” 

Tammas  was  sunk  in  revery,  and  Silva  at  last  de¬ 
parted.  He  was  out  of  sight  by  the  time  the  stone- 
breaker  came  to. 

“  I  spoke  to  the  minister  aboot  it,”  Tammas 


300 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


answered,  under  the  impression  that  Silva  was  still 
there,  “  an’  speired  at  him  if  he  had  sent  a  line  aboot 
Rob  to  the  London  yeditors,  but  he  wudna  say.” 

Tammas  moved  his  head  round,  and  saw  that  he 
was  alone. 

“No,”  he  continued,  thoughtfully,  addressing  the 
tombstones,  “  he  would  neither  say  ’at  he  did  nor  ’at 
he  didna.  He  juist  waved  his  ban’  like,  to  lat’s  see 
’at  he  was  at  the  bottom  o’t,  but  didna  want  it  to  be 
spoken  o’.  Ay,  ay.” 

Tannnas  hobbled  thoughtfully  down  one  of  the 
steep  burying-ground  walks,  until  he  came  to  a  piece 
of  sward  with  no  tombstone  at  its  head. 

“  Ay,”  he  said,  “  there’s  mony  an  Angus  lies  buried 
there,  an’  Rob’s  the  only  ane  left  noo.  I  hae  helpit 
to  hap  the  earth  ower  five,  ay,  sax  o’  them.  It’s  no 
to  be  expeckit,  no,  i’  the  course  o’  natur’  it’s  no  to 
be  expeckit,  ’at  I  should  last  oot  the  seventh :  no, 
but  there’s  nae  sayin’.  Ay,  Rob,  ye  wasna  sae  fu’ 
o’  speerits  as  I’ll  waurant  ye  are  the  noo,  that  day  ye 
buried  Davy.  Losh,  losh,  it’s  a  queer  war  Id.” 

“  It’s  a  pretty  spot  to  be  buried  in,”  he  muttered, 
after  a  time ;  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  to  another 
part  of  the  burying-ground. 

“  Ay,”  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  “  but  I’ve  a  snod  bit 
cornery  up  there  for  mysel’.  Ou  ay.” 

THE  END. 

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